Lucky
by GiraffeGirl
Summary: Being normal doesn't come easily to Cat Carter, but then Roger Davis has always struggled with that too. When the two meet, one blistering summer, their lives change forever. Perhaps being normal wasn't what they wanted anyway. Roger/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first Rent fanfic, although I first saw the musical 7 years ago and have watched the film countless times. This is largely canon but set a few years on from the Finale. It's a slow burner and very long - I've just begun part 2 and I'm on 60 000 words. It will eventually have 3 parts, and potentially a sequel. I'll try and add once a week, but I've started with 2 chapters as the Rent-crowd don't really appear until Chapter 2. **

**I don't own Rent, but I do own all the characters who aren't in the film/musical, especially Cat.**

**Chapter 1**

That summer was oppressive in Manhattan even by their standards. Over the course of the six weeks I spent in the city, I was frequently informed by customers that it was the hottest they'd ever known and that I'd picked a particularly bad summer to visit their wonderful city. It was odd that virtual strangers felt the need to apologise for something entirely out of their control. Their pride had been dented by the weather's refusal to break and show me something other than scorching days and humid nights. They felt I deserved better than that on my first trip.

The truth was it was the best summer I could ever have picked to be in New York. It just didn't always seem like it.

I'd left my own leafy green corner of England in a bad temper, as usual. The weather there was very different to what I experienced on my arrival in the USA, a typical British July of localised downpours and sudden bursts of icy wind. I'd originally intended to go to New York in June, but various things had happened that month which had delayed my journey yet not dampened my desire to go. By the time I finally waved goodbye to my brother at Heathrow airport not even his concerned frown could have made me stay. The nearer I got to the famous city, the further away I got from everything that had driven me insane for the last few years. As the plane touched down at John F Kennedy airport, I felt a weight lift off of my shoulders even as it was replaced with the heaviness of a Manhattan summer. Here I didn't have to be my father's daughter or someone else's girlfriend. I didn't even have to be Catherine, a name I'd struggled to feel comfortable with ever since I'd found out it meant 'pure' when I was sixteen. For however long I stayed in New York, pure was the last thing I intended to be. I didn't want to waste a single second in the city that never slept. Here I could be anything I wanted to be.

I chose to be Cat, nocturnal and independent. It felt like a new start.

My mother had long ago given up trying to persuade me to change my mind about anything in my life. I'd been stubborn, she claimed, from the moment I was born, and now I was twenty-five she doubted I would ever change. If her criticisms hurt me, a lifetime of similar complaints meant that I barely noticed. I tolerated the list of friends she pressed upon me, nodded as she insisted that I just _had_ to visit them whilst I was in New York. She didn't say I should throw myself on their charity now that my father had withdrawn all his offers of financial support, but her conviction that the Hamiltons would just _love_ to help in any way they could gave me more than a few hints in that direction. Poor Mother; unable to convince her husband to relent, unable to persuade her daughter to stay. Naturally I promised I'd call on the Hamiltons and the Rushes and the Thompsons as soon as humanly possible – and then promptly forgot their existence. This was my trip and I was going to do it on my own.

My way involved heading towards the Lower East Side of the city. As the cab driver dropped me off and I fumbled through my purse for his fare, he glanced up and down the street.

'You got family here?'

I resisted the urge to laugh; none of my family would be seen dead in this graffitied and run-down area of the city. It was a far cry from the palaces of Madison Avenue where my brother had summered a few years ago. In actual fact, it was a far cry from my own experiences in London and if it wasn't for the sheer relief of finally being out from underneath my parents' scrutiny I might have found myself hankering after similar levels of luxury.

'No. I'm hoping to find a room here,' I revealed as I handed the cash over, remembering the ten percent tip and then regretting it as my purse suddenly seemed very small. It was the first time I'd ever really considered money in my life and it was a rude awakening.

The cab driver glanced at me and raised his eyebrows. 'A room? Here?' It seemed as though he was about to say something but then thought better of it. We said goodbye and then I was left on the street, alone. I'd tried to keep my packing to a minimum, leaving most of my clothes in my London flat. Even so, my holdall was heavy, weighed down with the clothes, shoes and books that I just couldn't leave behind, and I lugged it up the street as I hunted for somewhere to stay that night.

Alphabet City had been at the heart of the artistic movements in New York over the last ten years or so. It had been renowned for being bohemian and different, everything I wanted this summer to be. I was looking forward to being me without needing to justify it to anyone. Whatever that meant and whoever I turned out to be. There were signs that the area was changing, with some shops being renovated and updated, and yet the general feeling was one of relaxation and freedom. It was late afternoon and the cafes were beginning to fill up. Laughter and smoke filled the air as I moved towards the nearest one. It was too hot for coffee and I was beginning to realise that I didn't have the money to waste anyway, but they might be able to give me a glass of water and possibly a tip on a room for rent.

The owner of the cafe was hospitable enough with the water but was unable to help me with the room. The pattern was repeated in the next three cafes I visited. By the time I stumbled into the fifth, my holdall felt ten times heavier than it had at Heathrow and I regretted my choice of tight jeans that morning. A glance at my watch only sent my spirits swooping lower; I'd been in the city less than two hours and home was looking more attractive by the second. Maybe my father had been right, something I never liked admitting.

The cafe was less busy than the others had been, but no quieter. A woman and two men at a table were talking earnestly and enthusiastically about something, I had no idea what. They broke out into fits of laughter at times, the woman leading the pack with a particularly dirty and raucous cackle. I smiled; somebody was having fun and that gave me some hope. Maybe I'd be lucky this time and that would be me.

'Can I help you?' The man behind the counter turned his attention to me as a previous customer collected their order.

Reluctantly, I changed my tactics. 'Could I have a coffee please?' As I handed over the cash, I realised that job hunting would have to become one of my priorities very quickly; my purse was rapidly becoming lighter.

The assistant handed me a cup of coffee. There were no other customers after me and so he leaned on the counter as I collected my change. 'I'm going to go out on a limb and say you don't sound like you're from around here.'

'Not exactly. I'm from England.'

'What brings you down to this end of the city? We don't get many tourists down this way.'

'I'm not a tourist.' On that point I was adamant, disliking everything that the word stood for. I'd been on enough holidays with my family, staying in an exclusive resort or one of their many getaway houses, and I'd seen my parents mingling with 'people like us', ignoring the locals unless they could provide a useful service. I planned to immerse myself into the New York life. To that end, I'd even left my well-loved Nikon F601M at home. This was one trip which wouldn't be documented and pressed between the leaves of a photograph album, locked away and forgotten about.

Time to focus on the situation at hand though. It wasn't as though I could have expected the cafe owner to know of my own petty problems. Stirring my coffee, I said as casually as I could, 'I'm actually looking for somewhere to stay. Do you know of anywhere?'

'That's not really my remit.' The assistant shook his head and shrugged, all interest in me vanishing almost instantly. I supposed homelessness wasn't the most attractive trait. 'Enjoy your stay.' He glanced over my shoulder. 'Oh no, not another glass of water?'

'And ice if you don't mind.' One of the men from the table was standing behind me. He delivered his words with a broad grin, which said that he knew he was taking liberties but he wasn't backing down. The smile lit up his unusual face, flushing his pale cheeks with some colour underneath his thickly framed classes. I was grateful to see that someone else had dressed for the weather as inappropriately as I had, as he was wearing corduroy trousers and a long sleeved shirt. My jeans seemed quite lightweight in comparison, especially as I'd teamed them with a sleeveless t-shirt.

And by about this point I became aware that I'd been gazing inanely at him for the last few seconds and I hastily lowered my eyes and moved away. There was a limit to how confident I could be.

'Hey, did I hear you say you were looking for a room?' The man touched my arm to gain my attention as he spoke.

'Yes.' I regarded him a little warily but decided I couldn't be too picky anymore. I could always say no if he offered me space in his bed, after all.

'I might be able to help. I'm Mark, Mark Cohen.' He held his hand out.

I took it, shocked by how grateful I was for some human contact already. 'I'm Cat Carter.' I could always make a run for it if he turned out to be a crazed killer.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Of course, Mark was nothing of the sort and his offer of help quickly came to fruition. He made a few phone calls from the cafe and returned to me a few minutes later with a grin on his face.

'Benny will meet us here in an hour.'

'Benny?'

'A friend. He owns one of the buildings on Avenue A. My building, actually, the apartment downstairs has been empty for... well, a long time.' He paused there suddenly, unnaturally. Then he added, much more cheerfully, 'We could be neighbours! That is, if you want...'

'I'd love to!' Mark's eyebrows rightly registered surprise at my eager reply. If I'd expected the people of Alphabet City to accept the person I'd always wanted to be without batting an eyelid, I'd have been disappointed. Now I simply tried to temper my enthusiasm. 'I mean, that would be great. Thanks.'

Mark smiled again. 'It's no problem. It'll be nice to have someone around again. It might even...' That strange pause again. His eyes took on a faraway look from behind his glasses. It took him longer to snap out of it this time and I wondered if I'd have to say something and break the awkward silence. I'd always been exceptional at small talk and what my father referred to as _networking_. For the last few years, I'd practically made it my main occupation, with a high level of success. Somehow, though, it was deserting me on this occasion and I wasn't quite sure why.

Suddenly the woman at Mark's table turned to see where her companion had got to. With her riotous curls and obscenely tight top, she looked like trouble from the start and her words proved her to be exactly that.

'Mark, aren't you going to introduce us to your new _girlfriend_?' She grinned wickedly, and the last of their trio, a tall and imposing black man, broke into deep laughter.

Mark was jerked out of his reverie and he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. 'I apologise for Maureen,' he said to me, before turning back to the table. 'I think we might be getting a little old for this.'

Maureen cackled again. 'I know you are, Mark.' Her gaze turned back to me and her more genuine smile made her seem much less intimidating. 'But seriously, come sit down.' She patted the empty seat next to her.

I glanced at Mark, who shrugged. 'Benny will be a while. And Maureen's bark is far worse than her bite.'

'That's not what you used to say.' Maureen's eyes glinted dangerously, as the other man laughed again.

With another sigh, Mark led the way back to the table.

'Hi, I'm Maureen.' She offered me her hand. With a gasp, she exclaimed, 'I _love_ your nails! And your hair!'

'Oh... thanks.' Both shots of colour had been a last minute act. The red streaks had come out startlingly scarlet against my normal honey blonde hair, and in an attempt to make them look less at odds with my otherwise neutral appearance I'd slapped some Red Ruby nail varnish on. It was very different to my usual French manicure touched up weekly at a local beauty salon. Still, a compliment was a compliment.

'Guys, this is Cat. Cat, you've met Maureen.' The heavy sarcasm in his voice made me smile as I finally extricated my hand from the woman's grip. 'Tom Collins.' He gestured towards the other man.

Tom Collins smiled and shook my hand. '_Enchante_.'

'_Content de te rencontrer,' _I responded without thinking, an automatic reaction. It seemed that it was much harder to forget seven years of lessons and tuition than I'd have thought. My parents would be companions at the table, however, seemed more shocked than anything else.

Finally, Collins laughed. 'Ah! Some class at last!' It took me several seconds to realise that the laughter wasn't mocking. Only when he added, 'Welcome to Alphabet City,' could I feel a smile returning to my face again and I slid into the chair Maureen had ear-marked for me.

Over the next fifteen minutes, I had my first taste of Maureen's special type of interrogation. In the months that followed I'd see her behave in a similar way to anyone who sparked her interest. It still didn't dampen the intense discomfort I felt as she attempted to find out everything there was to know about me. In many ways, it was too similar to the attention I'd been paid all my life in England and I was grateful when she finally drew breath and Mark was able to explain why I'd joined them.

'Benny's coming to meet us.'

'Oh great!' Maureen's rolled eyes and sulky voice suggested that perhaps Benny wasn't one of her friends.

Mark pressed on. 'I thought Cat could have a look at the empty apartment in our building. You know, maybe rent it if she liked it.'

The silence that followed his words made me glance between the three friends in surprise. As Maureen had dragged answer after answer out of me, both Mark and Collins had laughed and joined in. Silence didn't seem something that these people were capable of. What's more, Maureen's jaw had dropped in an attitude of surprise. I hadn't expected anything much could shock the feisty and tempestuous woman who littered her speech with more expletives than I could count. This apartment suddenly didn't seem such a good idea.

'The empty apartment? But that's...'

Collins interrupted Maureen. 'That's a great idea.'

'But Collins, what about...'

He gave her a firm and silencing look. 'Don't you think, Maureen?'

She glanced at me, her heavily kohled eyes looking uncertain and a little resentful as she agreed. 'Yeah. Sure.' Her eyes flew back to Mark as she said, 'Does Roger know?'

Now Mark looked uncomfortable. 'Not exactly.'

Maureen snorted. 'Well that's a no. Don't you think you ought to tell him?'

Mark's unease only grew as he said softly, 'It's been two years, Maureen.'

'I know that. You know that. But try telling Roger that.' Maureen stood up abruptly, revealing that her penchant for tight clothing extended below the waistline to a pair of denim hotpants. 'I've got to go, we're having dinner with Joanne's parents. It was incredible to meet you, Cat.' To my surprise, she kissed my cheek and gave me a violent but heartfelt hug. Stepping away from the table, she directed her words at Collins and Mark. 'Send Benny my love, tell him I'm _devastated_to have missed him.' The mischievous look in her eyes said everything that needed to be said about that comment. As she turned to go, she added, much more seriously, 'Tell Roger. For God's sake, tell Roger.'

The door closed behind her and the table fell silent. I inspected my nails for something to do. I wondered if they really suited me. Maureen, with her vivacious attitude and daring style, would suit them perfectly. In comparison, I was more of a weak pink than a bold red, I concluded, as I forced out the words I really didn't want to be saying.

'Look, if there's a problem with the apartment, I can find somewhere else,' I began, trying desperately to sound blasé and calm about it. The truth was that I was regretting leaving the Hamiltons' address at home.

Almost immediately, Mark and Collins sprang into life.

'No! There's not a problem, no problem at all!' Mark insisted.

Collins added, 'Ignore Maureen.'

I smiled. 'She doesn't make that easy.'

Collins laughed. 'No, she doesn't. Just ask Mark here.'

Frowning, I turned to Mark, looking for answers.

He sighed. 'Yeah, thanks.'

'Anytime.' Collins grinned.

Mark took a deep breath. 'Maureen and I... we used to have this... thing, you know. Nothing major.'

'Mark, you proposed!'

'I was drunk! And she said no!'

'Didn't stop her wearing that mail-order piece of shit ring you bought her.' Collins patted Mark's shoulder companionably. 'Cohen here was hung up on that girl for a long time.'

'But not anymore.' Mark concluded. 'So, about the apartment...'

They both looked at me and I experienced something I hadn't felt for a very long time. For some reason, both of them wanted me to take this room, they wanted me to stay in the area. I could barely remember the last time anyone had looked at me with such eagerness. It was such a pure and innocent expression: a desire to get to know me better. I liked it.

I glanced between the two of them and smiled. 'If your friend doesn't mind and is happy...'

The two of them beamed.

'Benny won't care,' Mark predicted. 'As long as you've got the rent, Benny won't care.'

* * *

><p>Mark's prediction proved accurate. Benny was a suave and sophisticated businessman who arrived at the cafe half an hour late in an astonishingly shiny black car. It was clear from the moment he arrived that this was an inconvenience to him and he would have preferred not to have made the journey to the Lower East Side in this weather. Droplets of sweat stood out on his forehead as he shook my hand and appraised me with one quick flick of his eyes.<p>

'Mark says you're interested in the empty apartment.'

It was a statement rather than a question, so I responded with a simple nod.

'Can you pay the rent?' He named a figure so low that I wondered if I'd heard it wrong. I knew that Alphabet City wasn't the most desirable area of the city, even with the rumoured redevelopment taking place, but this seemed more like daylight robbery than a fair rent.

Still, he was waiting for a response. 'Yes.'

There was a pause, as he glanced between me and where Mark and Collins were watching the exchange. He frowned. 'Have you got a job?' When I stumbled over my words, he sighed heavily and glanced back at the other two men. 'Guys!'

'She'll get one, we'll make sure of it,' Mark spoke for me. I usually hated anybody else speaking on my behalf and I'd sworn it would never happen again once I left England. Now, though, I was grateful for Mark's input. 'Come on, Benny. It's not earning any money as it is.'

After only a few more minutes, Benny agreed and produced the keys. 'I'll leave it to you to show her in,' he informed Mark.

'Can't you stay?' Collins asked. 'It's been a long time, Benny.'

But clearly whatever association Benny had had with Alphabet City wasn't one he wished to renew. 'Alison has family visiting. Say hi to everyone for me. Tell Roger to pick the phone up occasionally.'

Before I knew it, he'd gone, and I was holding the keys to my new apartment.

'I don't think there's much furniture left,' Mark informed me as he led the way to Avenue A. 'Benny was worried about squatters. There's a few chairs and a bed, I think, but if there are any problems, Roger and I only live upstairs so call in any time.' He seemed like an overexcited child, keen to have me moved in downstairs. It was endearing if not a little strange. I'd lived in my flat in London for almost three years now and I would barely have recognised my neighbours if they'd knocked on my door and waved at me. The thought that anyone would look forward to sharing a building with me was a new but not altogether unpleasant feeling.

The apartment was fairly bare but its size only made the pittance of a rent Benny had named seem even more ludicrous. I'd been used to large rooms and houses all my life, but this was big even by my standards. One huge main room housed a few threadbare sofas and a kitchen, with access to the fire escape through a window. A small bathroom nestled next to an adequate bedroom with a double bed in the middle of the room. Mark and Collins remained in the main room whilst I explored. I returned to find them seated on the sofa, deep in a murmured conversation. Collins broke off as I re-entered the room.

'So how does it suit you, Mademoiselle?'

My enthusiasm for the summer came back in a rush, bordering on the insincere. 'It's great! I can't thank you enough! It's wonderful!'

'It's not exactly Fifth Avenue,' Mark said modestly, with that eyebrow-raise again.

'No, it's better,' I insisted, trying to avoid gushing like the privately-educated schoolgirl I'd been ten years earlier. 'Really.' Nodding, I hoped that a lifetime of squashing my real feelings wouldn't stop them showing through on this occasion.

'We aim to please.' Collins saluted me and winked, and my relief at being taken seriously spread across my face in a broad grin.

'We'll leave you to settle in,' Mark said now, standing up. 'I'm sure you've had a long day.'

It had been an unbelievably long day. By my guess, I'd already been awake thirteen hours and most of those had been spent travelling. My clothes were clinging to me and I was dying for a long cold shower and to slip into something less warm. And then I'd...

My inspiration ran out as I realised I had no idea what I could do this evening. Ideally, I wanted to roll straight into bed, but I'd had visions of what my new life in New York would be like and they didn't involve early nights. Only now was I beginning to realise just how little I understood about the world I'd been thrown into. As I watched Mark and Collins leaving my apartment, pulling back the heavy sliding front door and stepping through it, I experienced something I'd never even imagined before: homesickness.

'Oh.' Mark turned back as he reached the doorway. 'If you're at a loose end tonight, you should call by. We might even be able to rustle up something to eat. That is, if you want to.'

A rush of affection for him swept over me and I couldn't hide the grin on my face. 'That would be brilliant! I mean,' I added, biting back my over-the-top responses, 'I'd like that.'

'Awesome. Come by whenever you're ready.'


	3. Chapter 3

**Let me know how Mark comes across in these few chapters. I've always seen him as the glue which holds all of them together when everything goes wrong, and that's certainly what he is at the moment in this story. I fear I may have made him a bit of a doormat to Roger in this story, but that changes slowly.**

* * *

><p>With the evening's plans arranged, I felt far more able to take my time over settling into the apartment. Once my initial delight over having somewhere to stay wore off, a few less desirable aspects of the place came to light. Only a few windows opened; the rest stuck fast as I tried to force them, and so the place retained a certain stuffiness which came from having been uninhabited for two years. In the next few weeks, I would beg, borrow and almost steal various clunking fans and mobile air-con units in an attempt to shift the stale air. Nothing ever fully worked.<p>

The water too suffered from underuse. That first shower I had was made especially memorable from the colour of the water; I'd never believed it could actually run brown out of the taps before. I dreaded to think how much water I wasted that day in my quest for a cooling shower, almost as much as I dreaded to think what exactly was making it that dubious colour in the first place. Only the thought of accidentally swallowing any of it forced me not to let out a shriek upon first seeing it.

Eventually, I felt I was at least fresher than I had been. After slipping into a pair of shorts and a fresh white t-shirt, I set about tackling my life's nemesis, my unruly hair. As ever, it was determined to dry in a series of curls, waves and anything in between. I managed to tug a comb through it before it became impossible and then prepared myself for the arduous task of blow-drying it. I couldn't remember the last time anybody had seen me with my natural hair and I wasn't going to inflict it upon Mark and his mystery flatmate Roger. Using a hairdryer in this heat didn't immediately appeal to me, though, and so I hoped my hair would air-dry a little first in order to spare me spending an hour under direct heat.

As afternoon turned to evening, a slight breeze drifted in through the open windows. I welcomed it, as only half an hour after my shower I already felt too hot. I'd approached the kitchen tap warily, but luckily it didn't seem to have had such a hard time as the water in the bathroom. A few chipped plates and cups were in the kitchen cupboards. They were in need of a wash and I made a mental note to do that as soon as I could. For now, I was content to drink several cupfuls of water as I surveyed my new home.

It was a world away from the last time I'd moved house. My flat in London, while no bigger than this open-plan space, had been brand-new when I moved into it almost two years ago. The smell of paint had still lingered in the air and the covers weren't even off of the black leather sofas. In all the time I'd been there, the water had never once run brown and the air-conditioning had always worked. In contrast, this place was a bit of mess.

But it was my mess, I reasoned as I crossed to the window. My mess, my choice, my trip. Even dodgy water piping couldn't take that away from me. It surprised me how much this space already meant to me. I'd left England so that I could live my life how I wanted without people breathing down my neck all the time. The thought of having my own place had never really occurred to me before.

The fire escape was accessed via one of the few windows which opened. I ducked through it and stood out on the small balcony. That was something my London flat didn't have, and I smiled as I considered how I would describe my new home to my family. I would definitely highlight the private balcony and downplay the dodgy plumbing.

Movement up above made me break off from my imagined conversations with my family. I was partially grateful, as even the parents in my head looked critical and I could feel that familiar sense of inadequacy creeping across me even three thousand miles away from them. Keen to see who was on the balcony above me, I leaned on the rail and glanced up.

I met a pair of blue eyes. My breath caught in my throat, from shock and from something else, something which made it hard to tear my eyes away. It was a familiar sensation, beginning somewhere around my stomach and spreading out until even the backs of my knees were tingling. After a few seconds I was able to study the face in more depth, taking in the creases around the eyes, the slightly too large mouth, the dark blond collar length hair. Eventually, distantly remembering the manners I'd had drummed into me since childhood, I smiled and managed to say, 'Hello. I'm Cat.'

The man upstairs didn't reply. I waited, a little impatiently, wondering why I still clung to such archaic ideas as good manners when other people seemed able to bypass them so completely. Just when I was about to speak again, to fill the silence with some meaningless comment which might just prompt a response, he disappeared and the balcony was left empty again. When I picked my jaw up off the floor from the shock of such rudeness, I padded back indoors to finish fixing my hair.

It wasn't that I wasn't used to strangers being less than friendly, I mused as I blasted my hair with 2100W of heat. Living in London had acclimatised me to being walked into and jostled on a daily basis without so much as a flicker of recognition. This was different though. Not many people could so easily ignore a direct greeting. For some reason, I found myself feeling a little disturbed and upset by the way the man had so complete dismissed my attempt at a conversation. I wondered what it was I'd done to make him behave so rudely, whether I'd broken some unwritten New York code by approaching him like that. Maybe you didn't speak to people when they were on their balconies, maybe you were supposed to just ignore each other. I'd travelled on the London Underground, I knew all about ignoring people when they were literally inches away from your face. Perhaps it was a simple social nicety I'd upset.

Whatever it was, I tried to put it out of my mind as I headed upstairs. Perhaps Mark would be able to explain what it was I'd done and stop me from making the same mistakes again. Or his flatmate...

And then I realised. Seconds after knocking on the door of their apartment, I glanced down the staircase I'd just come up. Their apartment was at the top of the building. There was nothing else above them but the roof. Meaning that the man on the balcony...

'Roger, can you get the door?' I heard Mark shout from inside the apartment. From then, there was only seconds before the door slid back and...

'Hi.' The man with the eyes greeted me.

'Hello.' Despite my embarrassment, I decided to brazen it out, and gave him a sweeping look from head to toe. 'Mark invited me for dinner.' He was the one who'd behaved badly, I reminded myself, as he stared steadily back at me; he was the one who should apologise. I'd done nothing except be friendly. So why was I so uncomfortable under his gaze, and why was an apology on the tip of my tongue?

Like an angel, Mark appeared in the doorway. 'You made it! Come in, come in.' He gestured towards the other man. 'This is my roommate Roger. Roger, this is...'

'We've met.' Roger cut him off and then turned away from the two of us. 'I'm going to take a shower.' He opened the bathroom door and disappeared from view. Seconds later, the water pipes clanked into action.

Mark looked embarrassed. 'Well. That was my roommate Roger, anyway. He was dragged up, I'm sorry. Can I get you a drink? Beer? We've probably got some wine somewhere, if Maureen left any...'

'Beer's fine.' It was a lie, I never drank beer at home. Which probably made it the ideal choice for tonight, signalling a fresh start. As I followed him into the kitchen area of the apartment, I added, a little boldly, 'Is he always that rude?'

'Roger? Sometimes.' Mark shrugged it off as he handed me a bottle of Budweiser. 'So how's the apartment?'

I nodded. 'It's great, thank you. Really, I don't know what I'd have done if it wasn't for your help today, honestly I...' Mark's embarrassment returned and I broke off with a small laugh. 'Sorry. I'm just so grateful.'

'You're welcome.' Mark spoke with a finality which concluded that conversation. 'So... dinner. Do you like Mexican?'

Mark and I talked for the next hour whilst he prepared dinner. I learnt that he was a film maker, some of which he was able to sell to local cable stations. It was clear that he didn't think much to the material that was broadcast on these channels.

'But it pays the bills,' he concluded. 'I know Benny – and my parents – don't consider it a real career but at least I don't have to wear a shirt and tie.' He emptied some chopped peppers into a pan. 'So what do you do in England?'

I took a gulp of beer as I considered how to answer that question. It didn't really help, but at least concentrating on not spitting it out immediately stopped me panicking. 'Oh, nothing huge. I... studied art at university.' True so far. I decided not to mention that it was Oxford University. That fact tended to create a whole series of other issues.

'Oh right. So you're an artist?'

'Not really.' I shook my head hastily. 'I wasn't that great at it. I mean, I can draw but... I think art's a bit more than that, isn't it?'

'Yeah.' Mark nodded, and for the first time in my life it felt as though I was talking to somebody who understood what I was saying. For my parents, an art degree had seemed a colossal waste of time, but at least it was a waste of time spent at a prestigious institution. It had completely baffled them when I'd graduated with a 2:1 and then never picked up a paintbrush again. The truth was that I'd never produced a piece of work I was pleased with, nothing which conjured up even a tenth of the emotions I experienced when looking at Van Gogh's self-portrait or Picasso's Guernica. I could draw nice pictures and that was it. Mark seemed to understand that instantly.

'So what about since you graduated? That was how long ago?'

'Three years ago.' Three scarily short years, I'd be twenty-five in September. 'I've had a few jobs.' I searched my mind for some of the brief stints I'd done in various family friends' businesses. 'I was a buyer for a department store in London for a while, but it didn't really work out.'

'Anything that could help you get a job here?'

I remembered Benny's near-contempt earlier that day and pulled a face, once again reminded how little I knew about this world. 'No, not really. Sorry about that, you don't have to help me find a job as well as a place to stay.'

'It's no trouble.' Mark shrugged. 'I was just wondering if you had any special talents. You know, cooking, waitressing, contortionism.' I must have raised my eyebrows at the last word. 'Well, The Cat Scratch Club is always looking for new staff members,' he teased.

I could well imagine what sort of establishment The Cat Scratch Club was and I had no desire to set foot in the place. 'I think I might leave that as a last resort.'

Roger had briefly emerged from the bathroom at one point and vanished into his room without a word, only serving to underline my initial impression of him. It was easy to forget for a time that there was anybody else in the apartment except for Mark and myself. I'd never found myself connecting so immediately with another person, and it would prove to be the only time I ever did. In the years to come, I'd find myself wondering how I'd been so lucky to find Mark on my first day in New York. I already knew from experience that finding real friends was rare; finding a real friend within hours of moving to a new country was rarer. If my parents could see me now they would never have believed I could have fallen on my feet so easily; it seemed my new nickname was a lucky charm.

The conversation had moved on to what had brought me to New York this summer, another topic I had to be fairly creative with. Mark wouldn't be interested in the lengthy family arguments and dramas that had resulted in my boarding a plane this morning, and I was even less keen to relate them. For me, a fresh start meant exactly that and I hoped to leave everything else behind me. Right now, an explanation involving a wish to travel for a while seemed to content Mark. At that moment, Roger stalked back into the main room.

'Beer?' Mark offered.

'I'm going out.' Roger's eyes fell on me again briefly before he turned for the door, and my stomach gave another twist, much against my will. 'I'll catch you later.'

'Roger?' He paused in the doorway as Mark frowned and seemed to think his words over. 'Just... take it easy, yeah? Don't...' The sentence was left unfinished, but seemed to have a small effect upon Roger, whose mouth twitched into a shadow of a smile.

'Sure, Mom.' With that, he pulled the door closed behind him and we heard his footsteps ringing out as he headed downstairs.

My eyes drifted across to meet Mark's and one of those moments passed between us, where we somehow knew instantly what the other was thinking.

'Sometimes rude?' I prompted.

'Okay. So... often.' Mark's mouth twisted reluctantly into a smile, a movement which only highlighted the genuine sadness in his eyes at his roommate's departure. He sighed. 'Sorry, Cat, where were we?'

Now that my stomach was back in the right place, I was glad we'd been interrupted and wasn't keen to get back onto the topic of my reasons for leaving England 'I can't remember,' I lied. 'Is there a problem? With me, I mean.'

'No, why?'

I shrugged. 'Your roommate didn't seem to keen on staying around tonight. And Maureen said...'

'Collins told you to ignore her,' Mark reminded me, but continued. 'It's not you, okay Cat? It's just... Roger can be like this sometimes. He's not been... happy for a while now. Sometimes he just needs his space.'

Privately I wondered exactly what could make everybody pussyfoot around someone like that. I'd seen it before, of course; Sam was temperamental and everyone from his agent to his friends and his own family had always treated him like some kind of bomb that could go off at any second. It was a similar situation here, and I found myself feeling unnecessarily disgusted with Roger without really knowing him at all. All I knew was that being around someone like him, someone like Sam, could be incredibly draining, and it was clear who was feeling the effects of his behaviour; Mark had to make a visible effort to regain his earlier cheerful demeanour.

'So how long have you lived in Alphabet City?' I asked now, keen to avoid the topics of both me and Roger for as long as possible.

'Too long.' Mark gave a short laugh to show that he didn't mean to sound quite as bitter as he did. 'About seven or eight years. It's the kind of place that doesn't let you go.'

'I think it's wonderful.'

He studied me closely for a second and I was suddenly aware quite how tired his eyes looked. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah, everyone thinks that at first. It's just... you can stay somewhere too long.' Before I could say anything, he turned back to the cooker and closed off that particular conversation with, 'Could you just grab the plates out of that cupboard over there?'

I did as I was told. I remained unconvinced that there wasn't a problem here, but right now I was pleased to be having dinner with a new friend on my first night in a new place. The rest could wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**I hope those who are reading are enjoying this - if you think anything needs tweaking (characterisation etc) then let me know. For my part, I'm having a whale of a time writing it so hopefully that comes across.**

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><p>Collins reappeared the next day with several pieces of furniture which he'd 'acquired'. At first, I was dubious about them, even as he moved them into the apartment and I could see how their shabbiness complimented the overall look. I'd never ask but I was certain he couldn't have provided receipts if I'd wanted them. It wasn't that I thought Collins was a criminal but... well, 'acquired' was such a strange way of phrasing it and he flatly refused to accept any payment from me.<p>

I'd slept for most of the day after Collins had dropped the furniture off and so I was still deliberating over whether to keep it all when Maureen arrived with a smartly dressed woman.

'Oh this place looks _amazing!_' Her enthusiasm for the place was infectious, and she went around the whole apartment at a rate of knots, inspecting everything. The exact reasons for her reluctance to have me rent the apartment were still vague, especially given that she didn't even live in the building. For some reason, though, her opinion counted and so I was pleased that she seemed much more on board with the idea today. Excited exclamations accompanied her trip around the apartment. When she returned to where I was standing in awkward silence with her companion, she said, 'Seriously, Cat, it looks _so__different_, doesn't it Pookie?'

I assumed the last part was directed at the other woman who now cleared her throat. 'Uh, Maureen?'

It was like somebody had flicked a switch, as Maureen instantly turned her attentions back to us. 'Oh right! Cat, this is Joanne. Joanne, Cat.' If I was in any doubt over the relationship between the two of them, Maureen clarified it for me by wrapping her arms around Joanne in a very public display of affection. I had a feeling that this might have had something to do with Maureen and Mark's break up.

Mark himself arrived shortly afterwards, complaining that Maureen's shrieking had made working on his latest film impossible.

'But doesn't it look _incredible?_'

Mark leaned against the doorframe and surveyed the room. 'Collins did pretty good. He doesn't often get everything sorted this quickly, you should be honoured.'

'Oh, I am, I'm very grateful...'

'But?' Joanne prompted me.

Blood rushed to my face instantly. It sounded so picky of me and I was ashamed of myself. Yet still... 'Well... I don't like the idea of charity, that's all. You know, I'd like to pay my own way...'

'Oh Collins doesn't _pay_ for the stuff!' Maureen laughed. 'I don't think Collins has ever really paid for much in his life!'

With my worst fears confirmed, I looked around at all the stuff he'd 'acquired' for me in the last twenty-four hours. It would all have to go, even the very funky art deco inspired lamp. Worse than that, though, was the feeling that somebody I'd liked very much on the few occasions I'd met him had turned out to be something I was so opposed to. I'd been let down so often over the last few years that I was surprised it still hurt so much.

'Hey,' Mark said suddenly, catching my arm. 'It's not stolen.'

'Really?' I tried not to sound too doubtful.

'Sure. It's not _stealing_ if people don't want it.' Maureen was adamant on that point.

'I didn't hear that,' Joanne remarked drily.

'What Maureen meant was that Collins finds this stuff on the street,' Mark explained. 'You'd be surprised the stuff people throw out. Does that make it better?'

It did, a bit, although it took me a few days to get my head around the concept of furniture from the street; it was definitely quite different from getting it from Harvey Nichols.

'So _anyway_,' Maureen put in now. 'We were thinking it was time we all got together. It's been _ages_ since we saw everybody together. And Cat too, of course.' She grabbed my hand excitedly and clutched it like a little girl. 'We're going to have _such_ a good time!' Turning to Mark, she added, 'Is Roger in?' With those few words, the whole atmosphere changed.

'Yeah, but I don't know if he's...'

'Oh screw that!' Maureen erupted. 'He's not been out in _weeks_.'

'Well, not out with us,' Mark added darkly. 'He goes out quite a lot.'

'Then he can come out with us tonight,' Maureen concluded, with a defiant nod of her head. 'I'll go up and see him.' Like a whirlwind, she disappeared up the stairs.

Joanne and Mark exchanged glances before both sighing in exhaustion. Turning to me, Joanne said, 'Pleased to meet you, Cat,' and gave me a firm handshake. 'I'm sorry about Maureen.'

I grinned and glanced at Mark. 'It's okay, she's... refreshing.'

'Well that's one way of putting it,' Mark agreed. 'You will learn to love her, most people do.'

'But if you don't want to go out tonight, don't let her bully you,' Joanne added.

'Oh no, I'd love to!' Having dozed for most of the day, I knew that sleep would be hard to come by tonight. Besides, I expected Maureen was entirely accurate when she said we'd have a good time; there was little other choice when she was around. 'I'm looking forward to a night out in Alphabet City.'

'Not too late though. You've got a job interview tomorrow.'

'Sorry?'

'One of the cafes on Avenue B wants a waitress. It's not exactly great money and it probably won't involve much art, but... well, he seems quite keen to get the vacancy filled and how hard can taking orders be anyway?' Mark grinned but then frowned as I continued staring at him. 'What?'

'Nothing, I just...' It took a few seconds for me to articulate my thoughts. Even when I thought I'd managed it, the words still came out in a way I hadn't fully intended. 'Why are you being so nice to me?'

Both Mark and Joanne burst into laughter. Mark put an arm around me. 'Because we were all new in this city once,' he replied. 'And we were scared too.'

My automatic reaction was to protest and insist that I wasn't scared. Then I took into account everything Mark and his friends had done for me over the last two days, things I'd never have imagined somebody doing for anybody else, least of all for me. And so I leaned into his hug.

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><p>Despite Mark's warnings, the evening turned into quite a late one. Maureen didn't disappoint and by eleven-thirty, we had quite a crowd of lively and interesting people around us. Always though there was the core group: Maureen, Joanne, Mark and Collins, holding it all together.<p>

At that time, I didn't consider Roger to be a part of the gang. Maureen had returned from her sojourn upstairs having only obtained a maybe from Mark's roommate. Considering how persuasive she could be, I was surprised that he'd been able to turn her down. Perhaps even more surprising was how she considered that to be some kind of victory. It seemed Roger had been neglecting his friends for quite some time.

We ate dinner at The Life Cafe on Avenue B, somewhere that my new friends seemed to be extremely comfortable. 'Dinner' consisted of some food and a lot of wine and beer. By the time we left the cafe and moved to a nearby bar, I was already far more giggly than I'd intended to be and I found myself linking arms with Maureen as we stumbled back past Mark and Roger's – and my – building. A quick glance up showed that the top floor apartment's lights were on: Roger was home.

'What a nerve!' Maureen exclaimed. 'He's turned down an evening with us for _what_? Sitting in alone with his _guitar_?' In one swift move, she'd picked up a stone from the pavement and was hurling it at the top floor window.

'Whoa!' Mark stepped in as the stone, luckily, fell far short. 'Maureen, take it easy! Are you trying to break the place?'

Maureen ignored him. 'Roger!' she hollered now. 'Roger! Come out! I know you can hear me! Roger!'

'Maureen,' Joanne said now. 'That's enough.'

It was strange the power Joanne had over Maureen. So often it seemed as though nothing would tame her or stop her behaving exactly as she pleased. But when Joanne tried, when she used that particular voice, it was like Maureen finally thought about what she was doing and came meekly back to heel. That wasn't to say she ever apologised for her behaviour. Now, she took my arm again and shot the lit-up apartment a disgruntled look.

'Fucking rude,' she concluded, a sentiment I could only agree with.

We were about to move on, when there was finally a reply from the top floor balcony.

'Maureen?' Against the lights of the apartment, we could make out a figure leaning on the rail.

'You have to ask?' Collins remarked. 'Roger, get your bony white ass down here, pronto.'

There was a long pause. I glanced at Mark, who was gazing up at his roommate with a strange expression on his face. It was as though he was willing Roger to do as he was asked, desperate to spend the evening with him. It was an expression I'd only seen a few times before in my life and I began to wonder if there was more to the relationship between the two men than I'd guessed.

'I don't know.'

'Oh for god's sake!' Maureen exploded. 'Roger, we're not going to _beg_!'

'She's pretty good at that though,' Joanne added.

Another long pause. Then, 'I guess I could come out for a drink or two...' A sense of excitement and relief rippled through the group. 'I'll just grab a few things...' The figure disappeared into the apartment and after a few minutes, the lights flickered off.

'Obviously not his wallet,' Maureen remarked. 'I take it he's still not found himself a job?'

'It doesn't matter,' Mark insisted. 'I'll pay for him. I'm just glad he's coming out. And you can talk about jobs.'

Maureen pouted but didn't reply. It had become clear over the course of the evening that Joanne's not-too-shabby lawyer's salary supported the couple, whilst Maureen preferred to use her talents elsewhere. She was currently enthusing about an off-Broadway show she was hoping to get the lead in. It sounded fairly strange but she'd already made me promise to come to opening night at the end of August. Despite Joanne's warning earlier that day, I agreed readily.

'Well, you're honoured,' Collins said to me as we waited outside for Roger.

'Me?' I squeaked.

'Roger hasn't been out for months. He must be making a special effort just for you.'

'I don't think so!' I replied, remembering the way he'd looked at me yesterday, which only served to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end again.

'No, me either,' Maureen put in. Both Collins and I looked at in a little surprise, and I couldn't deny that my brow creased into a slight frown. 'What? Blondes have never been Roger's thing.'

Collins laughed, that infectious rumbling thunder which I'd grow to love over that summer, and ruffled my hair. 'There is that,' he agreed.

'It's not natural.' My words fell mainly on deaf ears, for which I was grateful, wine-fuelled as they were. Collins, however, shot me look which he seemed to be about to follow up with some words.

I was saved.

'Have I missed something?' The subject of our conversation asked as he crossed over the street to join us.

'Nothing.' Collins pulled him into a bear hug. 'Good to see you, man.'

'Yeah, you too.' The words sounded genuine enough, but I noticed the awkward way Roger returned the hug, as though he was entirely unprepared for such physical contact. It was funny, but I recognised that feeling, the sense that being too close to somebody could ruin you. My family weren't known for their affectionate outpourings and I'd spent the past few years trying to convince myself that they weren't necessary anyway. For Roger's part, he managed to avoid any further embraces by nodding his head in greeting at everyone else, including me. Then a pasted on smile appeared on his face. 'So where are we going?'

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><p>The bar was further down the street and only took a few minutes' walk. Maureen maintained her vice-like grip on my arm, whilst Joanne and Mark walked in front of us, and Roger and Collins behind. Being part of a group was something I'd appeared to be very good at throughout school, university and beyond. I'd moved between various circles of acquaintances for years, always seemingly at the heart of the action. This was different though. For the first time, I realised that I actually wanted to be here and with these people. For the first time, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.<p>

The bar was lively and Maureen immediately dragged me onto the dance floor. It was most unlike me, or at least, unlike the person I'd been in England all these years, but in truth, I didn't need much encouraging, and I was soon swallowed up by the crowd. For a time, I was unaware of anything beyond the music and the press of people around me. I'd come to New York to escape, and there seemed to be no better escape than getting lost in a crowded bar.

Soon, though, the wine began to wear off, and with it my confidence began to dip. I finally made the decision to leave the dance floor when one hand too many stole around my waist. I looked around, hoping to find someone I knew. The previous feeling of belonging to something special had all but vanished now as the old familiar sensation stole over me: I was alone again. Slipping through the increasingly dense crowd, I hoped to find a quiet corner where I could ride out the end of this wave of paranoia before locating one of the others.

'Sorry!' The apology slipped out as I bumped into someone and their beer spilled over the top of their glass. Then my gaze shifted up and I met those eyes again. 'Oh. Hello Roger.'

He regarded me for several seconds before he replied. 'Hey. Cat, isn't it?'

'Yes.' For want of something to say, I added, 'I'm renting the apartment below yours.'

'Mark said.'

I searched for a suitable topic of conversation. The golden rule of successful socialising was never to drink enough to make thinking difficult. It was a rule I'd diligently followed throughout my life, nursing the same glass of wine all evening and remaining coherent until the very end of the party. Often, I'd be the only person to behave in such a way, which didn't make for an especially enjoyable evening. The alternative was worse though, as I knew both my parents and Sam would find some subtle way of reminding me of their expectations.

And on this occasion, I could almost see their point. Even as I opened my mouth, I could sense that this particular topic of conversation wasn't going to lead in a good direction. It was too late now though.

'He was really pleased you came out this evening, you know.'

Roger almost choked on the mouthful of beer he'd just taken. 'What?'

'Mark. He was glad you decided to join us. We all were. I mean, it's nice to finally meet you properly after yesterday and everything.' I suddenly became aware that he was staring at me with a bemused expression on his face. 'Have I said something wrong?'

'No. No, it's not that.'

'I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. I mean, I was only trying to be polite and you were rather rude, but I can forgive that,' I continued, my brain not quite working as fast as my mouth. An idea occurred to me suddenly and I stood my hand out. 'Hello. I'm Cat.' Roger didn't respond. 'You're supposed to shake it,' I added, as my thoughts caught up with my actions and I realised what an idiot I was making of myself. 'And... introduce yourself.'

There was another seemingly endless pause before Roger's hand closed around mine. With more than a flicker of amusement around his outsized mouth, he said, 'I'm Roger.' His eyes stayed locked on my face but there was a change now. The hostility seemed to have gone replaced with something else, a curiosity. It gave me the courage to get something else off my chest.

'Look, Maureen said something yesterday...'

'You don't always want to believe Maureen.'

'That's what I keep being told.' I smiled. 'But... she seemed to think you might have some sort of problem with me moving in downstairs.'

He blinked. 'Did she? What did she say?'

'Nothing really, just...' I shrugged. 'She seemed quite convinced. And you haven't been exactly welcoming,' I added in what I'd intended to be an undertone, an aside to an invisible audience. The loud music and the alcohol had clearly distorted my senses though, and so I saw the moment my words reached Roger's ears.

In one gulp, he finished his drink and put the glass down on a nearby table with a clatter. 'Yeah, well... that's Maureen for you.' Without another word, he stalked away. My drink-dozed brain ran back over the conversation, cringing at the moments that had been particularly ugly. If this was the person I was going to turn into in New York, I wasn't certain it was worth leaving the old-me behind.

'Hey.' Mark joined me. 'Was that Roger?' he asked, looking at the path his roommate had carved through the dance floor. 'Where's he going? What happened?' The volley of questions betrayed his seemingly calm exterior. He was worried about his friend and I felt a fresh wave of guilt wash over me. Whatever had sent Roger walking away this evening was down to me and me alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Cat is haunting my dreams and waking life. I need several days off in order to bash this thing out and free myself of her. Fanfiction is a killer.**

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><p>I took the guilt and a hangover to my interview the next day. The latter made me grateful that my make-up bag had made the final cut in my holdall as nothing would disguise the dark circles underneath my eyes apart from the ridiculously expensive cover-up that I'd sworn by since I was sixteen. With that and several cups of coffee from a nearby cafe, I almost felt human by the time I met my potential employer.<p>

The interview turned out to be more of a chat with the owner of the cafe, a middle-aged man named Eddie. Eddie, it turned out, had lived on the Lower East Side for more years than he cared to remember. Whether he was pleased about that or not, I never found out; I certainly never heard him complain in the time I knew him. After a few pleasantries and formalities, he began to show me around the cafe, explaining how things were organised and the protocol for taking orders. He seemed surprised when I prompted him to clarify whether I had the job or not.

'Of course you do.' He looked me up and down. 'Pretty girl like you. Bright. Job's yours.'

It wasn't quite how I'd imagined my first job interview going, and the thought that I'd only gained the job based on my looks wasn't a particularly appealing one. Still, I had a job, and the thought of that first pay packet sent me pounding up the stairs from my apartment to Mark's in delight.

The sliding door was partially open when I reached the landing, but I still hesitated on the doorway, my hand raised to knock on the wall. It fell as Roger looked up from the sofa across the room. He had a guitar resting in his lap which he almost immediately placed down on the floor, seemingly embarrassed to have been caught with it.

'Oh. Hello.' Memories of the night before flooded back into my head and I bit my lip self-consciously, remembering how inappropriate I'd been. 'Is... Mark in?'

Roger shook his head. For a moment, I thought that was the only response I was going to get. Then, 'No, he's out. Do you want to leave him a message?'

'Oh. Yes. Just... could you just tell him I got the job at the cafe.' It suddenly seemed quite a trivial reason to have run straight upstairs. At times like this, I felt far younger than twenty-four, something my family had done nothing to help. Trying to laugh, I added, 'Not that he'll care I'm sure. It's not that important, don't worry about it.' I turned to leave, feeling my face burning red.

'Cat.' I glanced over my shoulder. Roger had moved to the doorway. 'I'll tell him. I'm sure he'd love to know. It's... great news.'

'Thank you. I'll... see you later.' I gave him a small wary smile before heading back downstairs. I wondered if he had a twin brother because that was a very different Roger from the man I'd spoken to the night before.

My first shift wasn't until the next day and so I set about putting the finishing touches to the apartment. By the time I'd finished, my t-shirt was drenched in sweat and my next port of call was the shower. The water was beginning to run clear now after a few days use and so I had a long and leisurely wash, taking the time to detangle my hair properly before getting out. I intended to start my new job the next day with clean perfect hair.

Mark was more delighted than I had any right to expect him to be and immediately suggested a celebration.

'Again?' The alcohol induced headache was only just beginning to subside, not to mention the embarrassment at the way I'd behaved. The conversation with Roger had only been the tip of the iceberg; other memories had flooded back throughout the day which had involved drinking games and several completely unattractive men. The shower had been therapeutic in more ways than one.

'Sure! It isn't every day one of us gets a job.' Mark frowned. 'Well, actually, it _is_ quite a frequent occurrence.s It's the keeping-jobs bit we struggle with. But I'm sure that won't apply to you,' he added cheerfully. He nudged me. 'Come on, Cat. You're only young once.'

I laughed at his odd turn of phrase. 'All right, Dad. But only if you'll let me pay.'

'I'm sure most of us won't need telling twice.' Mark laughed. 'I'll call the others.'

The same group as the previous evening descended upon The Life Cafe, with Joanne arriving late due to problems at the office. Everyone, even Maureen, looked a little worse for wear this evening and it was no problem to convince everybody that it was just dinner and drinks, nothing anywhere near as adventurous as the night before. In fact, everyone seemed relieved that we'd be getting to bed this side of midnight.

'We're getting old!' Maureen wailed as she realised she'd just agreed to what amounted to an early night. 'God, I never thought this would happen! It's my birthday at the weekend!' She put her head on the table in a dramatic act of despair.

'Nothing like growing old gracefully,' Mark commented, moving a half empty bowl of soup out of harm's way.

'I'm almost thirty, Mark, not ninety!' Her recovery was excellent. 'I'm not quite ready for a retirement village yet!'

'Glad to hear it.' Collins interrupted the conversation. 'Another cause for celebration. Waiter?'

I frowned as a waiter appeared with what looked suspiciously like...

'Champagne? Collins!' I exclaimed.

'Don't get overexcited, it's not Cristal.' Collins passed the champagne flutes down the table. 'I thought it might add a little _je __ne __sais __quoi_ to proceedings. I've paid,' he added, winking at me.

'I said this evening was on me!' I protested as my flute was filled up.

'Oh quit whining!' Collins laughed. 'Be grateful woman. I won't be doing it regularly.' He rattled his knife against the glass. 'Ladies and gentleman. Our guest of honour would like to make a short speech. That's you,' he added in a staged whisper to me.

'Oh no, I can't!' I protested, much to the others' delight and jeering. Public speaking had never been my forte, and given the previous evening's attempts at casual conversation, I doubted I'd improved since travelling over the Atlantic. I'd always seemed to lack the ability to hold people's attention when I stood up in front of them. There seemed no way out of this though. 'Please, I... Oh! I just wanted to say that the last few days have been brilliant...'

'Oh here we go!' Collins exclaimed.

'Shut up!' I laughed, some of my fear dissipating. 'I just mean...'

'Am I too late?'

The whole table turned to look as Roger came in the door and my stomach took up residence in my throat again.

'Twice in two days!' Collins exclaimed, standing up to greet his friend. 'We're truly blessed. Grab a chair, Cat was just humiliating herself.'

'Perfect timing then.' Roger sat himself down directly in my eyeline and fixed me with those blue eyes. His gaze didn't move even as he accepted a glass of wine.

Flustered, I struggled to remember where I'd got to. 'I... I just want to say thank you for everything over the last few days and...' I tailed off and raised my glass. 'That's kind of it.'

'A different kind of toast.' Mark laughed as he clinked his glass against mine and took a swig of the wine. Pulling a face, he added, 'I'm going to need a beer.'

With the meal finished, people started disbanding and moving towards the bar area of the restaurant. I laughed as Maureen swiped both Mark's and Collins's wine: 'The only bad wine is wasted wine, boys.'

And then I was left alone with Roger. Throughout everything, his eyes had remained locked on my face. The edges of his mouth were curved ever so slightly upwards in an aspect of amusement.

Having lived my life underneath someone's critical gaze, I was used to far sterner looks than he was giving me, and so I managed to muster up enough bravado to shake my hair back off my face and stare him down over my champagne glass. Two could play at this game. The wine was even giving me the ability to be a little rude. 'What?'

'Nothing.' He shook his head. 'Just... it suits you.' He gestured towards my drink with his own half-filled glass.

I glanced at the glass and frowned. 'What do you mean?' All the glossy images in magazines flashed through my brain, all those occasions where I'd been pictured on Sam's arm with a glass of champagne. Was it possible those images had made it over to America? Any confidence I'd felt in facing him vanished as I wondered what he was trying to hint at.

Roger shrugged and then pushed his glass over the table towards me. 'Here. I need a beer.' With that, he stood up and headed over towards the bar, leaving me to try and shake off the feeling that I'd somehow been caught out. Even so, I finished my glass of wine and started on Roger's; Maureen was absolutely right on that matter. Besides, I didn't seem to be doing too badly this evening. Maybe it was just possible that alcohol was going to form a large part of who I was now.

Everyone seemed busy, preoccupied with having their own good time. I didn't mind. In fact, after having been the centre of attention for the last few days, it was nice to finally have some space to breathe and soak up the atmosphere around me. It was this I'd come all this way for, this I'd been craving for longer than I could remember. I should take the time to savour the moment.

Instead, I found my eyes flickering to the clock over the bar. It was ten o'clock eastern standard time. It would be six pm in England and I could imagine my parents were just preparing to receive guests at home in Kent. It was my mother's birthday, they'd been planning the party for weeks. For the first time since I'd made the move out here, I almost felt sorry for them. This evening would be marred by my absence and the mess I'd left behind me when I boarded the plane. My parents' friends were notable for their love of scandals, and my tempestuous departure from England that summer was one which would rumble on for quite a while. That party couldn't have been easy.

On a whim, I stood up, finishing the end of Roger's wine before making my way towards the door. I doubted anybody had seen me leaving and certainly no one called out after me. I was pleased; I didn't need anybody to hamper me from making what I knew would be a horrible phone call. It would be best just to get it out of the way.

There was a pay phone a few yards away from The Life Cafe. It wasn't the most ideal location for making such a call, but I reasoned that maybe it would prevent the conversation getting out of hand. Anyway, it was too late to back out now, as the phone had already started ringing.

'Hello?'

Attempting to inject some normality into the situation, I aimed for what I hoped was a breezy tone of voice. 'Hello Mother. It's me. I'm just calling to say happy birthday.'

There was a pause. 'Catherine?'

I wondered how many other daughters she had who weren't able to make it to her birthday celebrations. Amelia would have walked over hot coals to be there this evening, the perfect model daughter in comparison with her annoyingly bohemian sister. Even so, I bit my tongue and said, 'Yes. How are you?'

'I'm well thank you. And you?'

'Very well.' The formal tone to the conversation was nothing unusual; relations with my parents had been frosty for a long time. If I had dared to expect her to express any worry over my well-being in a foreign country I would have been sorely disappointed. 'Have you had a nice day?'

'Lovely. Amelia and I have been at a spa.'

Of course they had. The guilt I'd been feeling at missing my mother's birthday faded a little as I realised I'd escaped from that particular method of small-scale torture. I was sure many people would have considered a day at a spa to be the height of indulgence and a treat to look forward to, and I expected it was perfectly possible to spend a relaxing day there. Not with my mother and sister gossiping all day though, and particularly not when they turned their attention on to me. My now-chipped red nail varnish would only have been the tip of the iceberg before they moved onto my weight and thickening thighs, and the way I'd committed some hitherto unheard of social crime at the latest dinner I'd attended. I'd enjoyed exams more than I'd enjoyed days at the spa with them.

My mother, ever the socialite, now attempted to muster up some interest in what her youngest child was doing. 'And how are you? How is New York?'

'It's wonderful. Very hot.' A million other answers flashed into my head. _I__'__ve __found __an __amazing __apartment. __I__'__ve g__ot __a __job, __Mother, __a __real __job __all __by __myself. __I__'__ve __met __the __most __incredible __people __I__'__m __ever __likely __to __meet __and __I__'__m __happy, __so __happy_. It would have been a waste of breath. 'I didn't expect it to be quite so hot.'

There was another pause. And then, 'Your father is still very unhappy, Catherine. This evening will be very... trying for both of us.' She let that thought dangle before adding, 'When are you coming home?'

I closed my eyes as I recognised the direction this conversation was taking. 'Mother, please don't.'

'I'm only saying, Catherine. I can almost understand why you feel the need to... let off some steam, but honestly, this is most upsetting for everybody. Sam has been calling here day and night. Have you contacted him at all?'

'No.'

'Well don't you think you should?'

'He knows why I've done this,' I reminded her. 'He has no business to be phoning you.' Taking a few deep breaths, I tried to remember why I'd phoned in the first place. 'I don't really want to talk about it right now.'

'Unfortunately your father and I do not have that luxury. People are starting to ask questions.'

I did what I'd promised myself I wouldn't. 'I'm sorry.'

'Things would be much simpler if you just came home.'

'I can't do that.'

'Catherine, I really think you're making a mountain out of a molehill. It's time you started acting like a grown-up. You're twenty-four not fourteen for goodness sake!'

'It's exactly because I'm twenty-four that I'm doing this!' Something in me snapped, the same thing that had been snapping on a regular basis ever since I'd realised what it was that made my life so miserable. 'I hope you have a wonderful evening, Mother. I have to go.' Without waiting for a reply, I slammed the phone down, and then instantly regretted it. I'd lost my temper, again. They'd won, again. A sigh of irritation escaped from between my gritted teeth.

'Smoke?'

I jumped at the sudden voice so close at hand and turned to find Roger leaning against the wall behind me, holding out a packet of cigarettes.

'How long have you been standing there?' It was amazing how suddenly the snippiness could come back into my voice. One short talk with my mother and the earlier feelings of belonging and happiness had all but vanished. 'You shouldn't just creep up on people like that.'

'Hey.' Roger frowned. Taking a step towards me, he added, 'I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to frighten you.'

'You didn't.'

'Didn't look that way to me.' He offered me a cigarette again, which I declined with a shake of my head. Lighting one for himself, he added, 'I didn't hear anything much. Just you slamming the phone down.' He took a drag on the cigarette. 'You okay?'

The question seemed genuine enough, and then I remembered who it was I was talking to. The man who had changed personality more than I'd changed my top in the last couple of days - and they had been really hot days. I took a moment to collect myself. 'I'm fine. I'm always fine.' I even managed to force a smile which felt pretty genuine to me; I'd had enough practice at it.

His blue eyes appraised my steadily as he took several more long drags on the cigarette, before dropping it the pavement and grinding it out with the heel of his heavy boots. 'Yeah. Can you let Mark know I've gone home?' He didn't wait for an answer before heading down the street, his hands automatically finding their way into his jeans pockets.

On my entrance back into The Life Cafe, I was immediately met by both Collins and Mark, the latter sporting the now familiar look of worry which appeared whenever Roger was concerned.

'Have you seen Roger?' The obvious question.

'He's gone home.' I gestured needlessly over my shoulder. 'He said to tell you.'

It was clear that neither Collins nor Mark had expected that answer as they were momentarily taken aback.

'He said that?'

I glanced between them. 'Yes. He was just outside having a smoke...'

'He was supposed to have quit smoking!' Mark exclaimed.

'Hey.' Collins put a placating hand on Mark's chest but for some reason kept his eyes fixed on me. 'We know where he is. And he could be doing worse things than smoking. Come on. Let's get a drink.' Mark followed his instructions and made his way towards the bar. Collins gave me another look. 'You okay?'

An echo of Roger's earlier words and my smile became even broader. 'Of course I am. But I might head off now. I don't want to be late for my first day at work.'

'No. Goodnight.'

'Night.' I backed away from him towards the door.

Just as I was about to turn and walk through it, Collins called after me. 'Take care, Cat.'

'Of course.' I nodded. 'I'll see you soon.'

* * *

><p>The apartment was stuffy as always when I got back to it, and I set about throwing the working windows open. Having changed into my cotton pyjamas, I surveyed my new home over the top of a cup of water. This time, I saw it through my mother's eyes and I didn't like what I saw. Second-hand furniture, clanking pipes, windows rusted shut. It was no wonder Benny was asking such a low price for it; asking any more would be a complete joke. I was pleased I hadn't mentioned anything about the apartment to my mother; she didn't need any more ammunition to fire at me.<p>

That sparkling wine had been a mistake, I decided, as I headed for the fire escape. Alcohol had heating properties, which was all very well in the snow-capped mountains, but was the last thing anybody needed in a New York summer. Why I thought the balcony would be any better I had no idea.

The phone call had been a mistake too. It was a sad fact of life that I always felt more charitable towards my family when I hadn't spoken to them for a while. I was almost able to convince myself that they weren't as bad as I remembered them being and that I'd imagined the latest ridiculous criticism they'd levelled at me. One phone call and any delusions I'd had vanished; they were as difficult as I'd always suspected.

They'd even managed to kill my buzz about the job and the apartment. I hadn't thought anybody could do that. I leaned on the balcony rail and rested my head on one hand. My family would never understand the delight I'd taken in finding my own place and my own job, albeit with a little help. In comparison to the flat and jobs I had in London, I was practically standing on my own two feet, just like I'd been wanting to for years now. It should have been a high point in my life, and instead I was left feeling more miserable and angry than I had for a long time. It was so unfair that they'd destroy my joy like this. And that, I mused to myself, only made me sound more like a fourteen-year-old than ever.

'Do you want that cigarette yet?' For the second time in under an hour, Roger's voice from an unexpected angle made me jump.

This time I fought against the instinct to snap at him, but even so, my voice came out clipped and irritated. 'I don't smoke.' Then, in a particularly catty move, I added, 'And according to Mark, neither do you.'

I glanced up at where my neighbour was leaning over his own balcony rail, smoke billowing from his own cigarette. It was too dark to see much beyond the general shape of his head. Even so, the pause suggested that my barbed comment had hit home and the fact that Roger changed the subject with his next comment pretty much proved it.

'Did you tell him I'd gone home?'

'Yes.' I hoped I was making it clear enough that I didn't want to prolong this conversation. Misery was supposed to enjoy company, but I was perfectly content to brood over my dysfunctional family by myself.

Roger, however, seemed to be trying out yet another different personality, one where he tried to be fully engaged in someone else. 'Hey, have I done something wrong?'

Speaking to my family always made me into a person I didn't much like, and I realised that I had been rather abrupt. 'No. It's... not you.'

'The phone call? Figures.'

I looked up at him again so quickly that I almost gave myself whiplash. 'You said you didn't hear anything!' I suddenly didn't want this man to know anything about me, to understand anything more about my life than he seemed to already. It wasn't as though it was something I fully understood, so I really didn't want a stranger picking about in it.

'I didn't.'

'Then maybe you should keep your thoughts to yourself.' This time, before he could regain his composure, I decided to kill the conversation stone dead. 'Maybe you should just look after yourself instead of relying on everyone else to do it.'

'What?'

Warming to my theme, I continued. 'Mark's really worried about you, you know, and all you can do is swan around making things worse. If you really want to get involved with somebody's _problems_, start with your own.' I'd left myself nowhere else to go with this rant, and so I finished it. 'Good night, Roger.'

As soon as I'd climbed back in through the window, I could feel my toes curling up in horror at everything I'd just said. A large part of me wanted to turn straight round and take it all back, insist that I'd not meant any of it. I didn't know anything about Roger, how could I have given him such a lecture? The person I'd been for the last twenty-four years would never have said anything like that.

It was that lone reason that made me close the window behind me with a resolute slam, not really considering how warm that would make the apartment. Catherine would never have said those things; maybe Cat should.


	6. Chapter 6

**And this is where it begins...**

* * *

><p>Whatever the dramas in my personal life, I did feel a little better when I walked into the cafe the next morning for my first shift. I'd dressed in what I hoped would be appropriate and, more importantly, cool. The weather was showing no signs of breaking and I was rapidly running out of clothes options; I'd have to visit a laundrette in the near future. As it was, I'd slipped on a cotton sundress and flat shoes, before twisting my hair back into a pony-tail. Eddie had given me a brief once-over, his eyes flickering from top to bottom, and there was no comment. It seemed I'd passed the clothing test, which was more than I could say for the challenges which faced me over the next four hours.<p>

I'd naively agreed with Mark's opinion that taking orders couldn't be that hard. If I was honest, I'd never given much thought to the people who served me in the many restaurants and cafes I'd visited over the years. They'd been there, in the background, a vital but not particularly interesting part of the dining experience. I'd always tried to be polite, even when my father or Sam were intent on being as awkward or dismissive as possible, but I'd never considered how skilful their job really was. The morning shift, one Eddie had suggested as 'a good starting place', showed me how difficult it all was.

By one o'clock when my shift ended, I'd all but prepared myself for losing the job. It had been one disaster after another, beginning with a smashed plate and ending with a diabetic demanding to speak to the manager after I'd served him with a sugar laden coffee. Against the screeches of 'She could have _killed_ me!' I tried to stay busy and to remind myself that waitressing had never been my career of choice. It wasn't much comfort though. If I screwed this job up I'd be letting so many people down, not least of all myself. And Mark... How I'd hate to let him down.

At the end of the shift, I mustered up the courage to approach Eddie for what I expected to be my first and last appraisal. The least I could gain from it would be some work place experience. Tightening my ponytail, I put on what I hoped was a resigned smile, trying to make the process of sacking me a little easier on him.

'Is there a problem?' The cafe was becoming busier as the morning turned to afternoon, and Eddie turned away from taking a table's order to speak to me.

'No. My... shift...?' Whatever my intentions, my courage failed me; perhaps I'd misheard and this nightmare was going to continue for another few hours yet.

'Oh.' He glanced at the clock in the cafe. 'Of course. Is Lydia here?'

I nodded. Lydia had turned out to be a blonde tanned Californian, proving that Eddie was at least consistent in his taste. She'd taken my apron with a brief smile before getting straight down to work, processing three orders in the time it had taken me to do one. That had, of course, been a particularly bruising blow to my confidence.

Now Eddie handed his order over to the kitchen and turned to the coffee machine. 'Good. Same time tomorrow then.'

There was a pause in which I tried to process what he'd said, even as he turned back to the matter at hand, four coffees and a tea. 'Sorry?'

'Or is that a problem? You could swap shifts if you like, but you might be better staying on mornings until you've found your feet.'

'You want me to come back?'

He finally looked up from his coffees and his face creased into a broad grin. 'Why, gone off the idea?'

'No, I just...' I shook my head, a little bemused. 'I thought...'

'You thought you were bad enough to be sacked on your first day? Dream on, you'll have to try harder than that. See you tomorrow.' He pushed past me to serve the table with their coffees, never stopping for a moment.

I walked in a daze back to the apartment, trying to get my head around the sudden change in my expectations. From my imagined walk home in disgrace, I was instead thinking back over the morning and how I could improve upon it tomorrow. Paying attention to life-threatening medical conditions would be number one of my list of targets. It was going to be much more difficult that I'd ever expected to be a waitress, but I had a sudden desire to master the skills required, to be the best waitress I could be. Eddie had given me a second chance, and I wasn't going to stuff it up this time.

Second chances. I knew someone who could do with one of them. My soaring spirits were tempered with a sense of guilt and the knowledge that I'd behaved badly the night before. As I crossed the road and came in sight of my building, my eyes were drawn to the top floor apartment. I could blame my attack on Roger last night on many things: first day nerves, my difficult family, even the weather or the wine, but it all came down to one thing in the end. I'd been a bitch and that was something I'd always tried very hard not to be. In recent months, I'd begun lashing out at more people than I cared to remember and even if my sharp words seemed to roll off my family like water off a duck's back, it didn't make my behaviour alright. Last night had shown that I could escape a lot of things from England but I couldn't escape from my own temper. For all of his faults, whatever they were, Roger didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of my anger. My feet made the decision for me, as they carried me past my apartment door and on up the stairs, even as I hoped that he'd be out on one of his many mysterious outings.

The door was closed, raising my expectations of escaping from an apology I didn't want to make. I knocked twice, briefly, half-heartedly and began counting to thirty. As I reached twenty-nine, the door slid back and I was faced with those eyes again.

'Cat. Hi.'

'Hello.' I rubbed one foot up the back of my other leg, feeling stupid and childish again. How was it that Roger always elicited this response from me, when I'd felt so much more grown-up since leaving England? Under his gaze, I felt awkward and out of place and like an imposter; in other words, I felt exactly what I was.

Roger gestured over his shoulder. 'Mark's not in...'

'It wasn't Mark I came to see.' The words came out in a rush and I found myself having to take a deep breath as I finished speaking, as though I'd been starved of oxygen.

'Oh.' His one word was accompanied with an eyebrow raise, an increased interest on his face.

'Yes.' I bit my lip and then continued in a rush; it had worked before so I saw no reason to change tactics. 'I was inappropriate last night, I shouldn't have said what I did. Your... relationship with Mark is nothing to do with me and I shouldn't have got involved.' I stopped as I noticed his mouth twitching and I realised how rehearsed it all sounded. Pursing my lips together, I took a moment to collect myself before continuing in a much more measured tone. 'I just wanted to apologise. I was in a bad mood last night and I'm sorry.'

There was a long pause as Roger took in my cavalcade of words. When he replied, I was a little taken aback at what he said. 'You're right.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You're right,' he repeated, before elaborating. 'You were inappropriate. You don't know anything about my _relationship_ with Mark. You shouldn't have got involved. And you were in a bad mood.' His mouth twitched into the shadow of a smile as he spoke. And then he added, 'And you're right... Mark is worried about me.'

The atmosphere between us was broken, almost as though the cloying heat itself had lifted. I found myself able to return Roger's smile and before I could really catch my breath, we'd both broken into murmured laughter.

'Anyway,' I said eventually, dropping my eyes to the ground, suddenly finding it too difficult to look directly in his face. 'I just wanted to say I was sorry. I'll... leave you to whatever you were doing.'

I was halfway down the stairs before he spoke again. 'How was this morning? Your first shift,' he added in explanation. It was news to me he'd known that much, had _cared_ that much what I was doing today. It wasn't as though we'd ever had much of a conversation, something which could be blamed equally upon both of us.

'Fine.' I nodded, slipping seamlessly into the false bravado I'd lived behind for the past few years. Before I'd lost my last shred of patience, I'd spent most of my time faking a smile and pretending everything was fine. I wasn't sure which was the worse course of action. 'It was... good. Okay.' Roger's gaze didn't move from my face as I added more and more words. 'It was...' I sighed. 'Pretty dreadful, actually. I'm not sure I'm a natural waitress,' I added with a wry smile.

He missed his cue to respond again and I was about to continue downstairs. Then, 'How are you spending the afternoon?'

I shrugged. I'd not thought beyond this morning's shift and so now the afternoon stretched out in front of me, hot and lonely. Maybe once I would have been content with a quick shower and a lazy afternoon on the sofa. But not now. For some reason, now I waited with barely contained anticipation for what Roger might say next.

He seemed unused to conversation, leaving ridiculously long pauses between utterances. Finally, he spoke. 'Do you want to do something? With me, I mean.'

Cruelly, I left him dangling almost as long as he'd left me. I say almost because my head nodded before I could gain control of it, saying yes before I'd even considered the question.

* * *

><p>That was the first of many afternoons we spent in Central Park. The subway journey from the Lower East Side was hot and stuffy, and reminiscent of many similar journeys on the London Underground. We stood side by side, not speaking, occasionally brushing against each other and pretending we hadn't. It was standard travelling behaviour. Once we reached mid-town Manhattan, he led the way, still not saying much except for the necessary. On one occasion he reached out to pull me back onto the kerb as the lights changed and an impatient cabbie almost ran me over. I tried to ignore the sizzling heat on my arm which remained even after we resumed our walk side by side.<p>

The park was a welcome relief after the fumes and humidity of the streets. People in business suits and shift dresses were lying down on the grass, seeking out any area of shade they could and clearly grateful to have escaped from the office if only for an hour. Once within the park, it was almost as though the city had disappeared, leaving only the sound of birdsong and the hot summer sun beating down. It was like a particularly good summer in Kent.

Finally, Roger found a spot he seemed happy with, and even an elusive bench. He sat down. I left an adequate space between us and followed suit. The walk had brought a fresh layer of sweat out on my skin and I was content to tuck myself into the shade and simply relax for a few minutes. It was the first time I could remember feeling anything close to cool since I'd stepped off the plane at JFK airport.

We'd been sat in silence for almost ten minutes before Roger finally roused himself to say something. 'So... this _relationship_ with Mark. What exactly is it?'

It took me several seconds to respond, as though Roger's conversational issues were catching. When I did, it was with a simple shrug, my preferred method for conversing with him.

'I mean, you didn't think me and him...?' His mouth stretched into another smile as he exclaimed, 'You did!'

'I... I wasn't sure.' Heat rushed through my cheeks.

'Me and Mark? Seriously?'

'It was a possibility. You do seem very... close.'

'He's a friend. A good friend. But...' He wrinkled his nose up and I smiled. 'No, nothing else.'

'I suppose I should apologise for that too.'

'I'll let you off that one.'

'Thank you.' I glanced back at him and felt my mouth spring into a smile again. Embarrassed at how transparent my feelings were, I turned away and gazed across the park. There were people everywhere I looked, in groups or by themselves, and yet it felt as though we were the only two in the park.

'So why are we here?' I asked eventually, brushing stray pieces of hair off of my face. Roger glanced over at me and I explained. 'Well, out of everywhere we could have gone. The whole wide city of Nooo Yawk.'

My attempt at a Brooklyn accent fell far short. When Roger had stopped grimacing, he stared out across the park, that familiar silence descending between us as he prepared to reply.

'To escape, I guess.' Before I could consider the connotations of his answer, he fired a question at me. 'Why are you in New York?'

That sensation that he knew swept over me again. There seemed little point in trying to hide it anymore. And so I replied. 'To escape, I guess.'

He regarded me closely for a moment. Then he nodded. 'Yeah.' And we turned back to watching the people in the park.


	7. Chapter 7

**I hope those reading this are enjoying it so far. Please let me know if you - or if you're not.**

* * *

><p>By mutual unspoken consent, neither of us mentioned the afternoon to anyone else. Having seen me on board the correct train, Roger vanished into the Manhattan evening and I made the journey to Alphabet City by myself. Once I was in the apartment, I had the shower I'd been intending to have after finishing at work earlier. The lingering heat made me reluctant to bother cooking and I didn't have much of an appetite anyway. A few more weeks like this and I'd reach that elusive size 10 which had escaped me for most of my life; I knew I should have come to New York earlier.<p>

As it happened, I didn't have many opportunities to discuss my afternoon anyway. Mark called in to check how my first day had gone and stayed to discuss the filming he was planning on doing that evening. Then I was left alone. I didn't mind too much. The first evening alone in a strange place wasn't something to be relished, but it was inevitable. What's more, I was completely shattered from the upheaval of the last few days, and I found myself curled up in bed by nine-thirty. I had another early start the next day after all.

My second shift at the cafe was better. Whilst I still wasn't the fastest waitress on the Lower East Side, I at least managed not to poison anybody or to break any more of Eddie's cups or plates. Customers received their orders with only a minor delay and, to my complete shock, I earned my first tip. I could safely say that the one dollar coin left on the table was the most valuable piece of currency I'd ever come across. Eddie seemed reasonably happy with my work again and I left with a much lighter heart than I had yesterday.

I'd ear-marked the afternoon to finally do some laundry. Having dragged my small but surprisingly heavy bag of washing across the street to the nearest laundrette, I navigated the somewhat alien machine pretty well and then settled down with a book to await the end of the wash cycle. It was another thing I could tick off my imaginary list: do your own washing. Since I'd found myself living off my shockingly tiny savings, I'd realised quite how decadent service washes were, let alone the weekly dry cleaning I'd had collected from and delivered to my flat in London. This first attempt at doing it myself began to make up for my naive money-spending habits of the past.

Despite the noisy machines and the movements of the few other people in the laundrette, I found myself completely engrossed in the book I'd brought with me. So much so, that I didn't even notice when somebody new entered the shop. That is, until they directly addressed me.

'Cat?' My head shot up. 'I thought it was you.' Roger gave me a small but warm smile. 'How was day two?'

'Good.' I nodded. 'Well, better than yesterday anyway.'

'No broken crockery today? No assassination attempts?' Roger grinned as his teasing took its toll on my cheeks. 'Good.' Sitting down next to me, he glanced at my book. 'What are you reading?'

'Oh!' A little startled, I looked at the book cover as though I'd never seen it before. 'It's... Wuthering Heights.' My eyes flicked up towards his briefly, wondering what he'd make of it.

'Cheerful.'

'You know it?' Surprise coloured my voice.

He nodded. 'Of course. Why?'

I didn't quite know what to say. He seemed such an unlikely candidate for reading the Bronte classic, with his Jon Bon Jovi style haircut and battered leather boots. Men like him didn't read books like that; in my experience, men like him didn't usually read at all. In fact, if I was basing my comments on my own experience, most of the men I knew rarely picked a book up at all, preferring their entertainment to come from screens of all shapes and sizes. I expected that reflected quite poorly upon me and the men I knew, though.

'It just... doesn't seem your kind of book,' I said finally, a little hesitantly. 'But what would I know?' I added hastily, trying to avoid offending him once again. 'Did you like it?'

It took him three turns of the washing machine drum to respond. 'It was... heavy-going.' There was almost a sigh in his voice as he spoke, suggesting a world-weariness far beyond his years. At a guess, he was in his late twenties or early thirties, only a few years older than I was. The thought that I might look and sound so exhausted by then was sobering to say the least.

'I love it,' I said eventually, filling the silence with a truth I'd rarely bestowed upon anybody, choosing to keep my personal passions just that. 'I've read it five times.'

He nodded slowly, that steady and intense gaze not moving from my face. 'Favourite line?'

'Oh, I don't know.' I hastily rifled through the pages, searching for inspiration. Eventually I found something. 'Probably... "If all else perished, and _he _remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it." How about you?' I added, suddenly embarrassed to have been quoting a nineteenth century novel in a New York laundrette in the mid-1990s. When he didn't respond immediately, I offered my book. 'Here.'

He didn't take it. And then, in a low voice, he said, '"You said I killed you, haunt me, then!... Be with me always, take any form, drive me mad, only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!... I cannot live without my life. I cannot live without my soul!"'

It took me several seconds to realise that he was reciting from the novel, a quotation he had learned by heart. That was definitely something the men I knew didn't do.

'Wow.'

He didn't respond for a long time, even removing his gaze from my face and looking out at the street. There was suddenly a barrier between us again, a thick fog which prevented either of us from speaking. Each word which I tried to formulate got stuck somewhere in my throat, choking and suffocating. I had no idea how to respond to such an outburst. I'd travelled to New York for new experiences; I'd certainly got one of those.

'Your washing's done.'

'What?' The word slipped out, suggesting that all the time I'd spent cultivating perfect manners had been a waste.

Roger pointed to the washing machine. 'It's done.'

'Oh. Yes, it is.' I stood up and opened the door, pulling the washing out into one of the provided baskets and preparing to move it towards one of the driers. Despite the intense heat outside, I didn't really fancy draping my underwear out on the fire escape. As I emptied the machine, I said, 'Do you want to use it now?'

'No thanks.'

I wondered if I'd broken a laundrette rule; perhaps there was someone already waiting and Roger didn't want to push into the queue. Then I realised that there were several empty machines around. And then I glanced at where he was sitting, empty-handed.

'Haven't you got any washing to do?'

'No.'

'Then why...?'

'I was... passing and...' He tailed off and then stood up, his hands heading straight for his jeans pockets. 'You're busy. I should...' With a gesture over his shoulder, he started making for the door, backwards.

'Wait!' People glanced round at my raised voice, startled from their mundane chores. I bit my tongue hard and then said, in a more normal, regulated voice, 'I'll be finished soon. We could... do something. Or... go somewhere. If you like.'

There was a long pause as Roger regarded me across the laundrette. My stomach tightened. Then he walked back to the bench we'd been sitting on, and settled down to wait for me.

* * *

><p>Quotations obviously from Wuthering Heights, one of the greatest books ever written in my opinion.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

That second afternoon followed a similar pattern to the previous one. We made our way uptown on the subway and then to Central Park. Apart from my wearing shorts and a t-shirt rather than a dress, there was almost nothing to distinguish it from the day before. We even sat on the same bench. The only real difference was Roger.

As soon as we sat down, he said, 'So what other books do you like?'

The afternoon passed in a sharing of books we'd read and music we'd loved. Unsurprisingly, Roger admitted to a love for both Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen, something I was unable to suppress a smile at.

'What?' he protested.

'You're so out of touch!' I teased. 'Aren't all the cool kids into Nirvana or something these days?' It was only months after Kurt Cobain had died, and teenagers who had never even heard of the Washington based band were suddenly wearing t-shirts with the singer's face on it. I hadn't seen many teenagers rocking along to the Boss recently.

He smiled. 'Possibly. You tell me. Surely you're one of the cool kids.'

At that, I laughed. 'Really? Me? I'm more likely to be dancing to Abba or something.' The last tape I'd bought before coming to New York had been Take That's _Everything __Changes_, but somehow I doubted Roger would know who they were, even if he wanted to, which I doubted even more.

He grimaced. 'And I thought you had good taste.'

'Did you?' It was news to me he'd thought much about me at all.

As though he'd realised his mistake, giving away more than he'd been prepared to, he changed the subject, a Roger-speciality. 'Mark said you were an artist.'

'Mark lies.' I surprised myself with the speed of my reply. It had been the first thing to spring into my mind and it had escaped without me having a chance to have a second thought. I rarely allowed myself to be spontaneous; it felt good. Even so, it sounded harsher than I'd intended. 'I mean, he's sort of twisting my words. I studied art at university, but I'm not an artist. I wish I was.'

'What kind of art?'

'Nothing amazing,' I assured him. I'd always hated talking about my failed artistic attempts and today was no exception. 'Like I said, I'm not an artist. What about you and the guitar?' He frowned. 'You had one the other day. Do you play?'

'Not really.' His answer was even quicker than mine had been, as was his subject change. 'We should go to the Met some time,' he said, naming one of the many places I'd intended to visit in the city that summer.

'We?' I raised my eyebrows and claimed victory with a small smile as Roger looked away across the park, the very tips of his ears turning pink. I left it there and contented myself with people-watching for a time. But I couldn't help thinking that I wasn't alone in the fizzy feeling in the pit of my stomach and the sudden tingling down my spine.

* * *

><p>I stumbled out of the bath as the hammering on the front door reached new levels. Visions flashed through my head. The building was on fire and the firemen were trying to rescue me. A lunatic with a gun was on the loose. Something had happened to my family. Somewhere inside I knew that the latter was a ridiculous notion, that nobody would have a clue where to find me if anything did happen. Even as I hurried across the apartment, wrapping a towel around me and trying not to slip on the lino flooring, I supposed I should do something about that, give them some kind of contact address or telephone number. It was something I hadn't even considered previously.<p>

I flung the door back to find Mark about to slam his fist into the door again. He looked tense and stressed, but there was no evidence of fire or flood. There was, however, a sudden realisation that I was wearing only a towel and my hair was already beginning to spring up into an unruly fuzz. I hoped to God it was something important.

'Sorry, I didn't know...'

'It's fine,' I lied. 'Is everything okay?'

'You're busy...'

He was right, I was. The day of my fourth shift and fourth afternoon in the park with Roger had felt hotter than ever and I'd been dying for this cool shower all day. It was less than twenty minutes since I'd arrived back, having left Roger uptown again, and I was in no way ready to get out of the shower yet. For one thing, I hadn't yet had time to completely dissect what Roger and I had talked about all afternoon. For another, I hadn't conditioned my hair yet, something I knew I'd pay for if I tried to skip it.

But it was Mark. What choice did I have?

'It's okay. What can I do to help you?' My cheeks ached from smiling all day, but I forced one now.

Still looking unsure, Mark said, 'I could do with your advice. I've... I've kind of got a... sort of... date tonight and... Look, forget it.' Turning, he made to go back upstairs.

A get-out clause. I could return to my shower, look after my hair, consider my afternoon with Roger, all without offending anybody. Perfect.

Against my will, I said, 'No, Mark, wait.' He hesitated and looked back over his shoulder. 'Give me... five minutes. I'll get dressed and come up.' The look of relief that passed over Mark's face was almost worth giving up all of those things. Almost.

I threw on a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I was due to be paid after tomorrow's shift and one of the first things I intended to do was to buy some new clothes, I could barely keep up with the amount of washing I needed to do. Until then, I was stuck with an undersized white t-shirt and almost too short denim cut-offs. The most positive thing I could say about the outfit was that it showed off my rapidly developing tan. Still, it was only Mark, I reasoned, as I tossed my hair over my shoulder, throwing my hairdryer a doleful look, before slipping my feet into a pair of cheap flip-flops and heading upstairs.

'So what's the problem?' I asked, walking through the open door into the upstairs apartment.

'I need your help.' Mark appeared from his bedroom, holding two shirts up. 'Which is better?'

'That one,' I replied almost instinctively, pointing at the plain black shirt.

'Thanks.' He vanished again. 'Help yourself to a beer,' he called out to me.

I ignored his directive, but took a seat. Not for the first time I was incredibly jealous of the number of windows which actually opened in Mark and Roger's apartment. There was still only a slight breeze but it made a massive difference and made my apartment seem like an oven in comparison. Now I was up here, I was a little reluctant to go back downstairs. Judging by the bits of hair that had sprung up around my face already, it was far too late for conditioner anyway. I could quite happily settle in for the evening.

'What do you think?' Mark showed me the jeans and shirt combination. 'What shoes do you think? Does my hair look alright? Are you sure the other shirt wasn't better?'

'Mark, slow down!' I stifled a giggle as his ever present anxiety spilled over into all out panic. 'Seriously, what's wrong? It's only a date.'

'Easy for you to say!' Mark responded with a snort.

'What do you mean?'

He rolled his eyes. 'Look at you, Cat. I expect you get asked out on dates on a regular basis.'

I did look at myself, only seeing my too large thighs and the knotted mess my hair had turned into whilst I wasn't paying attention. At twenty-four I was still neurotic enough to overlook the positives, the things equally insecure women saw the moment they set eyes on me: my slim waist and long legs, and the perfectly clear skin I'd always taken for granted. It would take several years for me to feel wholly comfortable looking at myself in a mirror.

Now I hoped to deflect the attention away from myself. 'There's much prettier girls around. I haven't been on a date for ages.' The latter statement was open to debate: was it really a date when you were already in a relationship with the person?

He raised his eyebrows doubtfully. 'England must have some funny standards. The point is I haven't been on a date in a long time. It's not that easy for me.' He looked down at his shirt again. 'I look like an idiot.'

'No, you don't. You just... you don't look like _you_.' It was true; with the removal of his cord trousers and striped t-shirts, he'd lost the essence of himself, the things that made him so charmingly Mark. This new man in front of me looked smarter and more urbane, more the kind of man you'd expect to stumble across in New York, but he also looked uncomfortable and generic. He didn't look like someone who'd help a complete stranger find an apartment and a job within two days of meeting them. 'Go and put something else on. Who is she anyway?' I added, as he scurried back into his room.

'Her name's Stacey,' he called. 'She works for Buzzline. I've known her for a few years.'

'And you've only just asked her out?'

'Not exactly. We've been out before... a couple of times... but stuff got in the way...'

I wanted to ask him what sort of stuff had got in the way. _Stuff_ was something I'd learnt a lot about in recent years, particularly how it could get in the way. Rather than dwell on my own experiences, I was interested in someone else's. Maybe his stuff would be worse than Sam and mine's stuff.

I didn't get a chance to ask my question.

'Mark, you've got to stop leaving the door open, anybody could just walk in...'

I scrambled to my feet, feeling my eyes go as wide as Bambi's. There was a pause, a silence filled with tension.

'Cat. Hi.' It was an understated greeting which was rather let down by the smile which immediately tugged at the corners of Roger's mouth. 'What are you doing up here?'

I bit my lip, desperately trying not to let a similarly ridiculous smile spread across my face. 'I just sort of... walked in.'

Before he could reply, Mark came back into the room, distracting him. 'What's with the hair gel?'

I said, 'He's got a date,' just as Mark said, 'No real reason.'

Roger's jaw dropped and then he burst into loud and somewhat cruel laughter. 'A date?'

Mark gave me a withering look. 'Yeah, thanks, Cat.'

'What?' I looked between the two men. 'I don't understand the problem. Do you not go on dates or something? Neither of you?'

Something changed as I spoke, I wasn't sure what it was. There'd been a sense of fun in the air, some joviality. Then suddenly there was a silence, a tense and uncertain pause in the flow of words.

'I'm going to get changed.' The moment was broken as Mark went back into his room.

'Yeah, I was only dropping in. See you.' And without any further words, without a smile or even a wave goodbye, Roger left.

'Roger?' Mark stumbled out of his room, his feet knotted around the jeans he'd discarded as he pulled one of his tried-and-tested t-shirts down over his head. That familiar Roger-related anxiety had returned, blocking out any nerves relating to the date. 'Where did he go?'

'Out.' I shrugged. Momentarily torn between concern and anger over Roger's sudden departure, it took me several seconds to respond to Mark's next comment.

'Maybe I should go after him.'

'No!' I managed eventually. 'Mark, you've got a date!'

'I know, but...'

'But nothing.' I resolutely hardened my heart against Roger. I'd spent so much of my life being let down by people that a small bit of rudeness from him really shouldn't have upset me this much. And it certainly shouldn't affect Mark's evening. 'You shouldn't be running around after him. You look great,' I added, attempting to inject some more positivity into the situation.

'Really?' He looked equally as unsure as he had done in the previous outfit, and still gazed out the door after his flatmate.

'Mark!' I rolled my eyes. 'Forget him. He's a big boy, I'm sure he can look after himself.' Where this venom towards Roger was coming from, I wasn't quite sure. We'd spent four afternoons together, four lovely afternoons, but only a handful of hours in reality. He didn't owe me anything. So I tried to pretend that my anger was on Mark's behalf rather than my own. I was beginning to wonder exactly what the 'stuff' was that had got in the way of Mark and Stacey's dates before and whether it was connected with the delightful Mr Davis.

Mark didn't reply for a long while, before sighing. 'I know, I just... I worry about him.'

Another wave of affection for him rushed over me. 'I know you do. But nothing's going to happen to him. He shouldn't be making you worry about him like he does,' I added with a touch of anger in my voice.

'He doesn't do it deliberately.'

'Really? Look, go out tonight, have a great time. Tell me all about it tomorrow.' I stood up and gave him one of my biggest smiles. 'It'll be fun.'

He pulled a face but managed a small smile of his own. 'I'll try. Listen, thanks, Cat... for helping and everything.'

'I haven't done anything.'

'That's not true. It... it was getting a bit lonely around here before you showed up.' Folding his arms, he avoided looking me in the eye, clearly embarrassed by his own statement.

In an attempt to laugh it off, I said, 'Oh really? Even with charmer Davis around?'

A smile came across Mark's face but what struck me was the intense sadness in his eyes. It was completely at odds with what I'd said and I wished I could take it back. But it was too late.

'Yeah,' was all Mark would say, before, 'I should get going.'

'Oh, yes, of course. I'll get out of your way.'

'You don't have to rush off. It's not like you'll be getting in anyone's way up here.' Still that tinge of sadness in his voice and face, as though he wished there were more people here, getting under each other's feet. I wondered how a man so lovely and kind could possibly think himself so alone in the world. It didn't make sense.

'I've got stuff to do,' I lied, and then, impulsively, gave him a kiss on the cheek. 'Good luck. I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Thanks. See you, Cat.'

* * *

><p>My irritation with Roger Davis lasted for the rest of that evening and into the next day. How I slept while such feelings of anger and annoyance coursed through my body I had no idea. Nor did I really understand quite why I was so upset with his behaviour in the first place, but the fact was that I was upset, and that feeling lurked with me even as I clocked in for my shift the next morning.<p>

With the job still being so new, I found that I was able to put aside some of the thoughts that had bombarded me for the last few hours as I went through the increasingly familiar routines of the cafe. Even so, there were some moments when my brain was able to switch off and it immediately returned to its new favourite subject.

Over the last few afternoons, my initial thoughts about Roger had changed. I'd gone from thinking him to be a selfish and self-obsessed individual to listening to his thoughts and opinions and sharing some of my own. He'd become someone I enjoyed spending time with, a friend, maybe... I didn't let that thought finish, throwing myself into serving another table.

It wasn't as though he'd done anything to me, I reasoned, taking the latest order into the kitchen. Give or take a few rude departures, he'd never been anything but nice to me. More than that, he'd been wonderful company over the last few afternoons. I'd even begun to think...

'Cat!' A warning shout which came too late, as the dirty plates I was carrying slipped from my hands and landed with a resounding crash on the floor. The morning bustle of the cafe came to a halt as everybody turned to look in my direction and heat rushed through my entire body. I'd done it again.

'I'm sorry.' The apologies came automatically as I dropped to my knees amongst the broken crockery and leftover food. In my haste, I carelessly slammed my knee into the ground and winced as an errant piece of plate embedded itself into my skin.

Lydia had fallen to the floor beside me and was picking up pieces quicker than I could follow her hands. She glanced at me. 'Go and get your knee cleaned up.'

'But...'

'Go!' She thrust a sheet of paper at me. 'Drop this into the kitchen on your way past.'

Although I was dubious about the health and safety of such a policy, I obeyed, if only to get away from the staring eyes of the customers as tears prickled my eyes. I stumbled through the kitchen in search of the staff toilets where I washed the cut. It was much larger than I'd initially thought and took a while to stop bleeding. By the time I'd been able to put a dressing on it, the clock had ticked past one o'clock and officially, my shift should have been over. Guilt over what had happened drove me back into the dining area, where all evidence of my accident had vanished and Lydia was serving both our tables with an air of calm confidence. In a vain attempt to compete, I began to clear the table nearest the counter.

'Your shift's over,' Lydia reminded me as she walked past to fetch some cutlery. 'How's the knee?'

'It's fine. Just let me help.'

'Cat.' Lydia spoke firmly. 'Go home.'

'But...'

'For goodness sake! You dropped some plates, you didn't _murder_ anybody!' Lydia almost lost some of her professional composure in her attempt to get her point across. 'Hey, at least you dropped them before we washed them up!' She gave me a nudge with her elbow. 'I'll see you tomorrow. What?' she asked when I gave her a doubtful look. 'You think Eddie'll fire you for that? Honey, so long as you keep showing up in shorts like that, you've got a job for life!' Laughing, she headed back to the tableful of customers.

Back in my apartment, I tried not to beat myself up for how the morning had turned out. It was only my fifth shift and deep down I knew I hadn't been paying attention at the time. The whole accident could be put down to my getting over-confident with no real foundation for such a feeling. It was just that I'd thought I was getting better at the job, that I was beginning to get settled in my new life. Until last night, I'd even thought I was getting on better with people, that my new intention to be less suspicious and more trusting was paying off. So much for my fresh start. Being surrounded by second-hand furniture and the stale heat of a Manhattan afternoon only made my unexpected craving for home, for my _real_ home, much more intense. It was a life I understood, no matter how much I'd wanted to escape it. This whole trip felt like a huge mistake.

Suddenly I couldn't bear being in the apartment for one second longer. I grabbed my bag and darted out of the door. Only to be brought up short.

'Whoa, where's the fire?' Two firm hands gripped my shoulders as I almost walked straight into Roger on the landing. There was a laugh in his voice and I was momentarily wrong-footed, forgetting how cross I'd been last night and only thinking about those two hands, large and reassuring. The desire to escape vanished; New York seemed a haven once again.

'There isn't one,' I mumbled eventually.

'Then why the hurry? Have you... have you been crying?'

'No,' I lied, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand and despairing at the amount of mascara and eyeliner that came away on it.

'What have you done to your knee?'

'I fell over. I'm just on my way out actually, so...' I made to turn down the stairs, away from this interrogation.

'Cat.' His hand caught mine. It was like touching a red hot plate and I wrenched my hand free, almost over-balancing in the process. It proved to be a completely futile gesture as his hands only moved to my waist in an attempt to steady me. 'Cat, what's happened?'

'Nothing!' Reluctantly I raised my eyes to his face.

Those blue eyes looked deep into mine, searching for something, an explanation for my behaviour. 'Have I done something wrong?'

'No, I just...' I wrestled for something to say which would make sense. Roger's actions last night had upset me but I couldn't explain why. He wouldn't understand that I'd been in Mark's position for the past few years and that I couldn't stand the cavalier way he kept dropping in and out of his flatmate's life, never quite giving Mark enough time to cease worrying about him. I'd wanted to leave Sam and all of that behind me when I moved here; being reminded of it only a week after arriving wasn't part of my plan. 'I've just... had a really awful morning.'

'I thought work was going better.'

'It is, it was...' Feeling a little silly, I shook my head. 'It's just been a bad day.'

'I thought when you didn't come straight up after your shift that I'd upset you or something.'

'You noticed?'

'I... I was just coming to see if you were... alright.' He swallowed hard. 'Do you want to do something?'

Memories of Sam tried to flood into my head to remind me of the months of misery I'd endured as one of his playthings, months I'd never get back. Three thousand miles should have been enough to distance myself from that scenario and yet here I was, almost willing the same thing to happen again. The feel of Roger's hands on my waist easily blocked out any misgivings I had.

'Yes.'

'Great.' Roger nodded.

It took until we got onto the subway for me to realise that our fingers had twisted together, as though they'd always done that, as though it was the only natural place for them to be. Neither of us mentioned it.


	9. Chapter 9

**I accidentally borrowed/paraphrased a line from 10 Things I Hate About You. Apologies.**

**Hang in there on this chapter - paradise shatter shortly.**

* * *

><p>'Well, aren't you the lucky girl?'<p>

Undoing my apron, I looked at where Lydia was double-checking the orders ready for her to take out to a table. 'Am I?'

'No broken plates, Eddie upgrading you to work evenings and a gorgeous guy waiting for you outside? If that's not lucky, I don't know what is.'

The first two points made me smile, tapping into the immense pride I'd felt when I'd not only managed a shift without a major accident but had also been informed that I was required to work the following afternoon and evening shifts. It felt like I was making progress again and impressing my employer even if I wasn't impressing myself. Lydia had already informed me that the evening shift was busier and more stressful, but there was also the potential to make far more money in tips. If I was hoping to pay Benny this month's rent as soon as possible, those extra tips would come in useful.

The last point made less sense though, and I paused in the process of untying my apron. 'A gorgeous guy?'

'Yes! He's got this whole rocker dude thing going on. And he's asked for you!' Lydia picked the plates up and gave me a wink. 'You don't waste no time. Catch you tomorrow.'

I hooked the apron back up before heading out to the front of the cafe. Where I found Roger, standing rather awkwardly to the side of the counter and trying not to look too conspicuous. There was a moment before he caught sight of me where I thought about what Lydia had just said to me. I supposed he did fit those descriptions pretty well.

'What are you doing here? Just passing?' I teased, recalling the line he'd used in the laundrette earlier that week.

He smiled. 'Something like that. Do you want to do something?' The same question as ever, guaranteed to get the same answer.

'Yes.'

'Are you ready now?'

'Yes.'

We headed outside into the summer sun.

'You know, this is the last afternoon I'll be free for a while,' I informed Roger now, hardly able to contain my glee. 'I'm working the later shifts from tomorrow.'

'Is that good?'

'I think so.' I beamed to reinforce my point. 'I must be doing something right.'

'Good for you then.'

'Say it like you mean it.' I tried to sound put out but couldn't help giggling, still overjoyed at how well the morning had turned out. Yesterday's low point had all but disappeared from my horizon, blocked from view by a successful morning shift and an almost unnaturally nice afternoon with Roger yesterday. Even so, he could try to sound more enthusiastic now, especially given that our hands had once again found each other without us even trying. Whatever that made us suggested that he ought to take an interest in the things I was happy about.

'No, I'm not... I mean, it's good, if you're happy. What I mean is...'

'Give up!' I laughed.

But Roger ploughed on. 'I just meant that I'd miss this. The afternoons.'

I glanced across at him, my blonde hair falling between us and hiding my face as I spoke. I was grateful for the curtain between us. 'You better make the most of today then. I'm sure we'll still see each other. You only live twenty-five steps away from me.'

'You've counted?'

Caught out, I fell silent as we made the now familiar subway journey into the city. Despite this being the sixth afternoon we'd done this, almost following the same route from station to park, I was still glad that my hand was embedded in his. I'd navigated London by myself for years, not even thinking about the pathways I took and barely noticing the ebb and flow of the crowds. The unfamiliarity of Manhattan swept me away every time I left the security of Alphabet City and having someone to cling on to against the tide was comforting.

There was a limit to how safely I wanted to play it though. I'd come to New York for adventure and excitement; sitting on the same park bench day after day didn't quite measure up to what I'd envisaged all those weeks ago in London. No matter how blissful the previous afternoons had been, I wanted to make a change, even a small one.

'Come on, let's get some sun,' I said as we made our way towards our usual shady spot. When he looked reluctant, I added, 'Come on! I won't have the luxury of afternoons in the park soon, I want a bit of a tan first!'

'You're brown enough already,' he insisted, but followed as I tugged him across the park to an empty patch of grass. 'We're more likely to burn than anything else.'

'And you're starting to sound like Mark,' I informed him, grinning. 'Stop being such a wet blanket.' I slumped down onto the grass at his feet.

'A wet blanket?' He followed suit, smiling. 'Do people actually use that expression still? I thought it was ancient. Or is England really fifty years out of date?'

'Oh shush!' I laughed. 'Just relax. You need to learn to go with the flow a bit more.' I stretched out in the sun, inspecting the current colour of my legs. He was right, I was already quite brown, surprisingly so from only a few afternoons of sitting out in the sun. My thighs were looking thinner by the day; it was true that a bit of colour was slimming.

'Do I?'

'Yes.' Aware I was being a little hypocritical, I added, 'But so do I. It's why I've come to New York this summer.'

'To stop being a wet blanket?'

'Something like that.' I lay back on the grass. 'Gosh, I wish I'd brought sunglasses.'

'Gosh?' Roger broke into laughter as I half-heartedly swatted at his arm. 'I'm sorry, you're just so... British.' Lying down next to me, he nudged me with his arm. 'It's nice.'

I tried not to let my insides flip around too much at his response, instead gazing up at the startlingly blue sky. 'Isn't it beautiful? You'd never know we were in the city lying here.'

'Why do you think I come here?'

I glanced at him. 'Don't you like New York?' With my tourist's eyes, the city was strange and alien and wonderful and magical all at the same time. Opportunities seemed to lie around every corner and challenges up every street. Much as I'd loved my time spent in Central Park and the sometimes welcome relief from the city heat, I'd never considered it as an escape route. This was the second time Roger had ear-marked it as such.

'It's okay. Mostly. What about you?'

'I love it.'

'Yeah. I used to.'

'But?'

'Things change.'

'Why don't you leave? If you hate it so much.'

A bitter smile crossed Roger's face. 'It's not the kind of thing you can leave behind that easily.'

I hesitated before saying, 'Mark said something similar.'

Roger turned his head to look at me. 'Yeah? Mark's smart.'

Gazing into his eyes, full of hidden hurts, dozens of questions went through my mind. I wanted to know what it was that he was trying to escape, what it was which wouldn't be left behind. I wanted to know why Mark worried about him so much and why Maureen had been so concerned about my having the apartment below his. Why did he disappear on a whim with no warning and fewer farewells? How had he learnt how to change the topic of conversation so skilfully? Why did it sometimes feel as though simply talking to somebody else drained him of all his energy?

Yet it wasn't a question which eventually came out of my mouth. 'Tell me something I don't know about you.'

The eyes danced teasingly. 'What, like I can feel my face burning as we speak?'

'No! Something real.'

'Such as?'

'I don't know.' My request had come out of nowhere and so my mind scrambled for examples. 'Like...' I could feel his eyes on me and I managed to find something. 'This is the best job I've ever had.'

'You must have had some shit ones then!'

Having already said more than I'd intended to, I didn't respond. 'It's your turn.'

He pulled an exaggerated thinking face. 'Something real?'

'Yes.'

That familiar silence descended as he thought his words over carefully. In the meantime, I gazed up at the sky. A breeze drifted across the park, brushing against me. It was the coolest thing I'd experienced since arriving in the city. I was so distracted that Roger's reply took me by surprise.

'This is the happiest I've been in two years.'

I looked back into his eyes. And smiled.


	10. Chapter 10

**Here goes...**

* * *

><p>We all pressed back against the wall of the subway station as a car swept down the street and a wave of water erupted from the puddle.<p>

'Bastard!' Mark exclaimed as we were sprayed with muddy droplets.

'Should we just go back and get changed now?' Roger remarked, looking down at the wet spots all over his jeans. 'And then not bother going at all?'

Neither of us dignified him with a response. He'd been grumbling all evening about making the journey uptown to Joanne's apartment for Maureen's birthday celebration. I had to admit that it had seemed less attractive since the weather had broken shortly after we'd returned from Central Park that afternoon. The driving rain now bore no relation to the stifling heat we'd endured for the past week. There was a smell of lightning in the air, suggesting that maybe the city would be more comfortable after this spell of rain. It didn't make the current weather any more desirable though.

I shivered inside my thin cotton summer dress. The dash down the block from our building had resulted in my hair asserting its independence again and I was desperately trying to twist it into sections, wondering if I could pull off the grunge look which had been so popular on the fashion scene recently. I expected I couldn't.

Checking his watch, Mark glanced down the street. 'Where is he? He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.'

Roger glanced up from where he was lighting a cigarette. 'Probably got himself mugged again.'

Seeing Mark's anxiety divided between Collins's well-being and Roger's smoking would have been funny if it wasn't so painful. For several moments it was clear that he couldn't quite make his mind up what to do. Then he gave Roger a withering look. 'I'm going to see if I can find him. I'll be back in a minute.' Turning the collar of his jacket up against the rain, he trotted away down the street.

'You're doing it again.'

'What?' Roger took a long drag.

'Worrying him. Do you have to?'

Smiling, he asked, 'When did you become Mark's carer?'

'I'm not. I just... well, I don't see anyone else volunteering for the job. Least of all Mark.' I shook my head. 'Sorry, it's none of my business really...'

For once, Roger's reply interrupted mine. 'No, you're right.' Dropping his cigarette to the ground, he looked to me, his eyebrows raised. 'Happy?'

'Happi_er_,' I conceded.

'Then leave your hair alone.' He stood up and caught my hand, pulling it away from where I'd been frantically fiddling with the frizzy strands.

'It looks awful.'

'It looks fine.' His fingers linked through mine for an instant. And then, just as abruptly, he dropped my hand entirely and took a step away from me. 'So you made it then?' His last words were directed over my shoulder at where Collins and Mark were making their way towards us.

'Would I miss one of Mo's get-togethers?' Collins called back with a broad grin. 'Sorry for the wait. I was just getting supplies.' He patted his pocket meaningfully before opening his arms to me. 'Cat, _ma__cherie,_how are the mean streets of New York treating you?'

'Wonderfully.' I stepped into his hug gratefully, feeling a little abandoned since Roger had dropped my hand. 'How are you?'

'Cannot complain. So are getting this show on the road or not?' With an arm still draped over my shoulder, Collins gestured towards the subway station.

'We were waiting for you!'

'Roger my friend, just because you appear to be in a good mood this evening does not mean you can criticise my time-keeping.' Collins folded his other arm around Roger. 'God knows we've spent enough time hanging around for you. So come on, bitches.'

As we bought our tickets, I was able to slip out of Collins's grasp and dropped back to walk with Mark.

'Have you heard from Stacey yet?'

He shook his head. 'No. I wasn't expecting to. Not yet.'

'I thought it went well.' Mark had certainly seemed more positive yesterday when I spoke to him. The date had been a modest success and he hoped that they'd repeat the venture in the future.

'It did. I think. It's complicated.' He shook his head. 'Come on, let's get on the train.'

It was clear that the topic of conversation was closed and we boarded the train. Collins regaled us with a tale of his latest protest at NYU. I tried to listen but couldn't help being distracted by the pressure of Roger's leg against mine as he sat beside me on the train. There was a layer of thick denim and cotton between our skins but that didn't stop the searing sensation every time he so much has shifted his weight. The subway was much cooler now than it had been earlier in the day but I could feel my cheeks burning and I was almost grateful when we reached our stop and I was able to move away from him. Almost.

Joanne's apartment was exactly as I'd expected it to be: large, ordered and minimalist. Or at least, it would be minimalist if it wasn't for the preparations Maureen had put in place for her party to celebrate her twenty-ninth birthday. Every spare space was covered in the sort of decorations you'd have expected to find at a child's birthday party, from banners and bunting to paper lanterns and party poppers. It turned out that Maureen's love for parties was second only to her love for birthdays.

'And here we are at the birthday girl's party. Twenty nine again?' Mark greeted Maureen with his camera in hand, recording the moments of the evening from the very beginning.

'We aren't all as old as you,' Maureen replied, before throwing her arms around me. 'You came! Come in! Oh my God, _Roger_?'

'Hi Maureen.' Roger accepted her hug with his usual stiffness, before moving through into the main living space of the apartment. I followed him as Maureen greeted Collins with typical enthusiasm.

'Hey.' Joanne waved a greeting. 'Drinks?'

'Please.' It was one of the rare occasions when Mark and Roger acted as a pair and spoke as one. All I'd seen of the flatmates over the last week had been them pulling in different directions so to see them agreeing on something was a novelty. I stifled a laugh.

Like it was all he'd been listening for, Roger turned to look at me. 'Have you got any champagne for Cat?'

Before I could protest, Maureen swept back into the room. 'Of course! What's a party without champagne? Well, sparkling wine, but whatever!' She pulled a bottle from the fridge and took a long swig from it, before handing it to me. 'What?' she asked, looking around at the others' astonished faces. '_What_?'

'I think we can probably stretch to glasses,' Joanne surmised, handing me a wine glass.

'Classy,' Mark deadpanned.

'We need music,' Maureen declared. 'Collins, help me choose some!' She dragged him over to the stereo in the corner of the room.

'So how many has she had already?' Mark asked.

'Enough.' Joanne lifted her own beer up. 'You know it's her thirtieth, right?'

'Of course. And she's dealing with it _so_ well.'

'You'd think after we'd all turned thirty she'd be fine with it,' Roger remarked, watching as Maureen whooped excitedly and pulled Collins into a tango. 'And yet here we are.'

It felt very unlike a party suddenly. Whilst Maureen appeared to be having a wild time, Collins seemed to merely be indulging her whims. My sister Amelia had turned thirty earlier that year and had celebrated with a dignified dinner for some of her closest friends. Admittedly, I would never have taken my sister's advice on how to mark a milestone like that, and Maureen and Amelia couldn't have been more different, but even so, it didn't feel much like a thirtieth birthday. From the way everybody was watching with sad eyes as she behaved more and more erratically, it felt more like a farewell party. It reminded me of our final university ball, a melancholy tinged affair which had ended with more than one person in floods of tears. This wasn't really what I'd expected from a Maureen Johnson birthday.

Now she gestured at me. 'Cat! Come on!' It was clear she wanted to involve somebody else in her mad dashes around the room which we were all pretending were recognised Latin dances. They weren't like anything I'd learnt in the ballroom dancing lessons I'd taken when I was seventeen.

I glanced around at the others. Mark, Joanne and Roger's eyes all locked onto mine as they waited to see what I'd do.

'You don't have to,' Mark muttered.

'Just tell her no,' Joanne added.

Roger said nothing.

'Cat! Come _on_!'

My life had followed a seemingly unbroken path since the day I was born. I'd behaved exactly as my parents had intended, obeying their rules and the expectations from everybody around me. I'd been unexceptional at most things, passing exams with reasonable grades and taking part in various team sports at school. I'd had a few steady relationships with boys and men who were equally as compliant in the things they did. In short, my life had been entirely predictable.

It was time to take a different path.

Grabbing the bottle of sparkling wine, I followed Maureen's earlier lead and took a long swig from it. I'd never drunk straight from a bottle before and I was surprised by how heavy the bottle was, and how much it hurt when it momentarily bashed into my front teeth. Undaunted, I tossed my hair back, gave Roger a particularly defiant look and joined Maureen and Collins.

As the evening progressed, a more party-like atmosphere infiltrated the apartment. Some of Maureen's friends from the off-Broadway shows she frequented arrived, bringing more alcohol and a sense of chaos to the usually genteel surroundings. I'd been to a few house parties at university and things seemed to already be crazier than anything I'd experienced before. And yet I didn't mind, as the sparkling wine took its effect. What's more, I was in the middle of the madness and it felt as though I was enjoying it. I couldn't be completely sure as I couldn't quite feel my toes anymore, let alone anything beyond a vague blurriness. I was definitely behaving most unlike the Catherine I'd been in England for the last twenty-four years; that had to be a positive of a sort.

It took me a while to realise that there was more than just alcohol being passed around from person to person. By the time Collins caught my hand and threw me into a particularly spectacular (to my mind) spin, the smell of marijuana was heavy in the air and more than one person around me was wiping their nose in what they hoped was a nonchalant way. As I tucked myself under Collin's arm, I found myself in a small group, including Maureen, who were passing a joint around. For the first time in a couple of hours, I had a rational thought that maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Drinking was one thing, drugs was something else. Of course I'd come across drugs before; the wealthy had their vices the same as anybody else. Somehow I'd never been overly tempted though, preferring to err on the side of caution.

The conversation was hard to follow. They seemed to be discussing some sort of philosophical theory, the sort of conversation I'd dreamt about when I'd been trapped in one of the mind-numbing gossiping sessions which was a mainstay of the sorts of parties I attended in London. Now it was a reality though, I found it far too heavy-going and difficult. It was certainly highlighting my own ignorance. The longer I stayed listening, the more inadequate I felt, not least because I was the only one unable to contribute an opinion.

Finally, there was an opening in the conversation as Maureen directly addressed me. 'Cat, do you want a drag?'

All eyes turned onto me and my stomach tightened at being the centre of attention. I hadn't spoken for the whole time I'd been standing there. Flustered, the words slipped out. 'Yes, sure.'

Maureen handed it over and the conversation resumed around me, with people only occasionally giving me glance, presumably to see when I'd be done with their joint. I stalled for as long as I could, trying to look casual and experienced, but really just putting off the inevitable. I knew I couldn't stall for much longer.

Finally, I lifted the joint to my lips and took what I hoped was a fairly small drag on it. For a moment, it felt as though I'd achieved the impossible, smoking for the first time without making a complete fool of myself. The sickly sweet scent of cannabis drifted past my nose, but I thought I'd be okay.

And then the smoke hit the back of my throat. In an instant, it felt as though someone was sitting on my chest, preventing me from breathing properly. The taste of the drug coated my mouth and it was all I could do not to retch there and then. Suddenly I knew that on this occasion I'd gone too far.

'You okay?' Collins asked suddenly. He glanced down at me, a questioning look on his face. It was as though he'd sensed the change in me.

Pride got in my way. 'Of course.' It would have taken too much to force my mouth into a smile and so I settled for handing him the joint. 'Excuse me a moment.'

I blundered my way across the apartment, looking for somewhere out of the way that I could sit down and try to regain some control over myself. The thought of anybody else seeing me in this state was mortifying and I hoped I'd manage to escape the main living area without being waylaid by either Mark and his camera or Joanne's impeccable hospitality.

A single corridor led off the living area. The bathroom was locked and so I stumbled past. The next door revealed an immaculate guest bedroom, all creams and coffee colours. It was deserted. Gratefully, I made my way across the room to the bed. The numb feeling had spread from my toes into my feet and I fell more than sat down onto the bed. Cradling my head in my hands, I concentrated on trying not to be sick and on not groaning too loudly. And on not falling face first onto the carpet.

My concentration was spread a little too thinly and I felt myself begin the slow descent to the ground.

'Whoa whoa whoa!' Firm hands gripped my shoulders and hauled me back onto the bed. Lifting my head from my hands, I came face to face with Roger. He looked concerned. 'Cat, what's happened?'

All I could do was give a low moan and let my head drop again, suddenly exhausted. I hoped he'd soon leave me alone so I could go to sleep.

'Cat?' He gripped my chin and forced me to look him in the eye again. 'No, don't go to sleep. What's happened? What have you taken?'

'No...nothing.' My tongue felt too large for my mouth but I managed to force that out.

I felt him grab both of my arms and pull them out in front of me, exposing the soft skin in the crooks of my elbow. Only after he'd done that did he put his hand on my face again, gentler and calmer this time. Even my churning stomach settled underneath its warmth.

'Okay, let's have a look. How much have you drunk?' It seemed he was speaking more to himself than to me. 'And you stink of pot.' Without warning, he pulled my eyelid back.

'Ouch!'

'Oh, you can feel that?' There seemed to be a hint of humour in his voice now, and as I opened my other eye I saw the very beginnings of a smile on his face. 'Fucking hell, Cat. I only took my eyes off you for a few seconds.' He sighed. 'Look, I'm going to get you a drink of water and then I think we should get you home.'

'No!' A sudden fear of being left completely alone swept over me. It was almost entirely fuelled by the drink and marijuana, but it was real enough for me to be able to grab at his hand as he stood up.

'I'll only be a few minutes! Cat!' I must have looked particularly pathetic as he gave another sigh and crouched back down in front of me. 'Okay, I'll go in a minute. How do you feel?'

'Horrible.'

'That'll be the sparkling wine. God, Cat, what am I going to do with you? First your knee, now this. Why are you always trying to be something you're not?' The last was said in a near whisper as his fingers brushed against my jaw again.

I could blame it on the drink or the drugs or the fact that I was currently feeling incredibly sorry for myself, having disgraced myself at the first real party I'd attended in New York. Or I could blame it on the fact that I'd wanted Roger to kiss me since we'd met at the subway station this evening.

It was messy. For the second time that evening, I bashed my teeth into something. Roger seemed so taken aback that he didn't respond initially. Then, as I buried my hands in his hair, he put both hands on my face. He tasted of beer and cigarettes. There was a hunger in his kiss, a desperation which should have startled me. Instead, it only endeared him to me further. As I leaned backwards, relieved to finally be allowed to lie down even if it was with Roger's weight on top of me, a thought passed through my head: _this __really __isn__'__t __your __usual __behaviour_. But it was... good. It was the most natural thing I'd done for a long time.

And then it all came crashing down around us.

'And let's see who's the first to pass out!' A gleeful giggle sounded at the door, accompanied by a warning from Mark: 'Maureen, be careful!'

The door swung open. Roger scrambled to his feet, guilt and fear all over his face as we both stared at the people in the doorway. Maureen was clutching Mark's camera which was now pointed at the ground. Behind her stood Mark, his mouth open in a perfect circle. Both were staring at us.

'Oh my God!' The words escaped from Maureen's mouth without her usual enthusiasm.

With Roger's hand still linked through mine, I found myself pulled upright. My dress had ridden up to show off my tan lines and I knew my lipstick was smeared around my mouth. And Roger's, it turned out, from a quick glance in his direction. My face rapidly turned the same colour.

'What's going on? Are you two...?' Maureen was lost for words. It wouldn't happen much in the time I knew her. I should have enjoyed the moment more instead of feeling sick to my stomach.

'No, we're... we're not...' Roger seemed to be about to deny everything. I felt the betrayal like somebody had punched me in the gut. And then his hand closed more tightly around mine. How was it that I'd never noticed that before? The last two days I'd felt as though I was being guided through Manhattan by him. Suddenly I realised that he'd been hanging onto me. I squeezed his hand back and it seemed as though that was all he needed. 'We're not doing anything wrong.'

'We didn't say you were.'

'Cat, are you okay?' Mark asked suddenly, pushing past Maureen and coming towards me.

'Why wouldn't she be?' There was a warning edge in Roger's voice, as though he was daring Mark to say something more.

'Roger, he didn't mean anything...'

'I want to know what he's asking for.'

'Mark...' Maureen sounded tired and scared suddenly, a world away from her usual self. I wouldn't have thought it possible for this woman to be reduced in this way.

'I was only asking, she looks...'

'She's drunk too much. And, I don't know, probably smoked something she shouldn't have.'

'Yeah, she did,' Maureen agreed. 'Mark, it's cool. She probably just needs to sleep it off.'

'I'm fine,' I insisted, mustering the words up from somewhere. My stomach was still churning and everything seemed slightly off-key, as though the world had tilted an extra degree to the left. But I was mostly fine.

'We should get you home. Come on.' Mark offered me a hand to get up off the bed.

'I can take her.' Roger's grip on my hand tightened. I'd have complained if I hadn't found forming words quite so difficult.

'Is that really such a good idea?'

'Why wouldn't it be?'

'Guys, come on!' Maureen tried to stop the two men snapping at each other. 'This isn't helping anybody. Cat can stay here.'

'Hey, what's the shouting about?' The bedroom had seemed vast when I first stumbled into it, but with the arrival of Collins, it suddenly felt too small and claustrophobic. I'd have killed for a breath of fresh air or to escape from this horrible tense situation. I didn't even know why there was such an atmosphere.

'I'm taking Cat home.'

'Roger, I just said, she can stay here!'

'Why is my taking her home such a problem?'

'It's not!' Mark insisted but even I could tell there was something going on here, something nobody was telling me. There'd been that sensation in the background before: the way Maureen had worried about my taking the apartment; the way both Mark and Roger spoke about the city. At the time, I'd been curious if too polite to probe any further. Now I had the feeling that whatever it was they were all hiding was about to come out – and that I wouldn't like it.

'Oh come on, Mark! Say it!' Roger faced his flatmate down. 'You know exactly why you've got such a problem with this!'

'Roger, don't!' If I hadn't known better, I would have said Maureen was on the verge of tears. 'Just... calm down.'

'Mo's right, Roger. Chill.' Collins took a step towards his friend, hoping to have some sort of calming effect.

'What's going on?' It had taken me so long to force the words out, rolling them around and trying to get my tongue to form the right shapes. It was ironic that by the time I'd said them, I was certain I didn't want to know the answer.

It was as though they'd all forgotten about me. There was a silence as they all stared at me. No one seemed to want to speak, to answer my question and finally let the long-hidden truth out. So I turned to the one person I hoped wouldn't let me down.

'Roger?

His eyes slid away from mine, looking around at everybody and everything else than me. For a moment it seemed that his anger would return, that his words would fall like bullets on anybody who dared to breathe. Then he closed his eyes and it was as though he aged ten years in front of my eyes. The sadness and weariness I'd seen around him before took over. I wanted to take my words back, to try and stop it happening, but it was already too late.

When he finally spoke, his voice was at odds with his face. He spoke like a much younger man, one who wanted somebody to make what he said go away, to wake him up from the nightmare he'd found himself living in. It was a feeling I could immediately identify with as his words hit me. 'I'm HIV positive.' Sobs choked his throat. 'I'm... sorry.' Dropping my hand, he pushed past his friends and bolted out of the door.

'Roger, wait!' Mark called after his flatmate but to no avail. As if any of us thought that would stop him.

I vaguely heard Maureen unleash a tirade of words, some directed at Mark, some at the absent Roger. I wasn't sure what she was saying or why she was so angry. It seemed irrelevant. All I could hear with any clarity was an echo of what Roger had said before he left: _I__'__m __HIV __positive. __I__'__m __sorry. __I__'__m __HIV __positive. __I__'__m... __sorry._

'Hey.' A hand closed around mine and I found myself jerking back into the present as Collins sat down beside me on the bed. 'You okay?'An instinct made me nod my head. Then, as I felt Collins's stare penetrate into me, I shook it. 'You want to go home?' An unequivocal nod.

Collins stood up and pulled me up gently beside him. 'I'm going to see Cat home.'

Mark and Maureen broke off from their war of words. 'I can do that,' Mark began to say, as Maureen said, 'She can stay!'

'It's not a problem.' Collins spoke with such authority that the others had no choice but to be quiet. 'Great party, Mo. One of the best.' She gave him a wobbly smile and accepted his kiss on the cheek. 'Cohen, I'll see you tomorrow. Come on, Cat.'

I avoided looking anyone in the eye as Collins led me through the apartment to the front door. In the elevator, I even avoided looking at myself in the full length mirrors on all sides. If I could just focus on my feet and putting them in front of each other, maybe I'd be okay. Maybe I could get home and go to bed and when I woke up tomorrow, this would all go away. My return flight home was open-ended; maybe it was time to use it. I startled myself by even thinking that. This afternoon England couldn't have been further from my future plans. Now I wondered if I'd be better off there. At least I understood the world I'd left behind.

It took until we were sat down on the subway for Collins to break the silence between us.

'How are you feeling?'

'Awful.'

'I shouldn't have brought that pot. I'm sorry.'

I turned to look at him in astonishment. 'It's not your fault. I could have said no.'

'Even so.' And we descended into silence again.

I picked at the skin around my nails. It was amazing how quickly my perfect French manicure, re-done once a week at a top salon in London, had come undone. The remnants of that ill-fated scarlet polish remained on a few fingers, but the overriding image of my hands was how red and scarred they were becoming. That was the difference between working and not working, I supposed.

'Is this why you all worry about Roger so much?' I hadn't really known I was going to ask but once the question was out there, I realised that remaining silent on the subject wasn't helping. All that was happening was that I reliving those few seconds when the evening had turned completely beyond repair. Maybe talking about it would be the solution.

Collins smiled. 'Amongst other things.'

'Such as?' When no reply came, I tried another line of inquiry. Somehow whilst I was getting information, it didn't seem so real, so much like it was happening to me. 'Why did no one tell me?'

'It wasn't our place. Roger would have told you. Eventually. If you needed to know.' The last was said with a whole lot of meaning behind it and I looked away from him. I knew what he was saying but it didn't stop the feeling of having been lied to. 'It's not an easy thing to tell people, Cat. And Roger has had more trouble than most with it.'

'Why?' My decades old manners suddenly caught up with me. 'Sorry, Collins, it's... not your job, I should...'

'It's fine.' With a reassuring smile, he continued. 'Roger's had a lot of... stuff to deal with over the last few years. He hasn't always dealt with it well. I think it's sometimes been too much. And he's liable to look on the dark side of things anyway. Musicians!' He rolled his eyes and chuckled to himself.

I stared down the carriage at where a young couple were talking, heads together and hands entwined. They looked locked away in another world, so happy in each other's company. It was exactly what I'd thought was going on between Roger and me. Now it seemed what I'd pictured in my head and the reality were poles apart. 'I can't see much on the light side.'

'It depends how you look at it. If I hadn't contracted it...'

'Wait!' I interrupted and stared at Collins in shock. 'You?'

'Me. We don't all go shouting about it in public, you know. Just Roger.'

'I'm sorry.'

'I'm not.' In response to my disbelieving look, he explained. 'Without this illness, I wouldn't have done a lot of things. I've met some incredible people. Like Angel.'

'Who's Angel?'

'My boyfriend.'

'Your...?' I stumbled over my words. 'I've never met... no one ever mentions...'

'No, they don't.' For the first time that evening, Collins sounded bitter. Obviously the absence of Angel in his friends' conversations and lives upset him. In the brief pause between his words, I wondered why it was that they didn't talk about him, what it was he'd done that made him such an outcast. They seemed open and caring; surely anybody Collins loved would be welcomed without hesitation? 'He died.' All I could do was stare at him. 'It was a few years ago now. He had AIDS.'

'I'm sorry.'

'He was the best thing that ever happened to me. What I'm saying, Cat,' he said, trying to steer the conversation onwards, 'is that it depends how you look at things. This disease has led to some of the most wonderful times in my life. And the worst.'

'And what about Roger?' Collins pulled a face and turned away. 'You said he'd been through a lot. Like what? Collins, please.'

There was a long pause. 'You should ask him.'

'And you think he'd tell me?'

The train came to a halt and Collins stood up. He pulled me to my feet. 'I think he might.'

As we made our way to street level, I glanced across at him. 'You knew, didn't you? About Roger and... me?'

'I guessed.' He shrugged.

'Not that there's anything to it,' I added hastily, remembering how easily Roger had started to deny it all earlier. 'We've just... spent some time together and...' I trailed off into silence as we walked outside. The earlier rain had stopped and left a much fresher feel in the air. More than fresh, I decided, as I shivered.

'You should get a sweater.'

I smiled. 'I'll remember that for next time. Look, thank you, but I can take it from here.'

'Sure?'

'The building's only there.' I pointed across the street. 'I think even I could make it home safely by myself.'

'I got mugged by that phone box once.' I raised my eyebrows. Collins laughed. 'Sorry, not the most comforting thing I could have said, was it?'

'Not really,' I agreed, but for the first time all evening, my lips curled upwards into a smile. 'Thank you. For bringing me home and... stuff.'

'You're welcome. Come here.' His hug was welcome and I stayed within his arms much longer than I would normally. Within a few minutes I'd be alone in my own apartment and would have the whole night to think over the events of today. If I could prolong this time even by a few seconds, it would be worth it.

'You gonna be okay?'

'Of course.'

Collins let me go. Then he added, 'He'll be on the roof.'

'Sorry?'

'Roger. He thinks no one knows but I've known the guy almost ten years, there's not much I don't know about him by now. Whenever he needs some space, he always heads for the roof.'

'Why do I need to know this?

All Collins did was raise his eyebrows. As he turned away, he called over his shoulder, 'Get a sweater.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Please do let me know how this story is going. This was the scene which drove this story for me, the image of Cat and Roger alone on the rooftop. There are a couple of other scenes which haunted me as I wrote this later on - I'll point them out when we get to them.**

* * *

><p>The fresh breeze turned into a strong wind on the roof. I was grateful I'd taken Collins's advice about the sweater as my cotton dress offered up no protection against this sudden change in weather. I'd chosen it on account of the way it flattered my general shape, skimming over my thighs and showing off my small waist. It had been the choice of a young woman, little more than a child, trying to impress the man who hadn't been far from her thoughts for the last few days. Already I felt so distanced from that girl, as though she was another person entirely. Perhaps this was where my life changed; perhaps this was where Cat really began.<p>

The city that never sleeps produced too much light to ever make star spotting a possible activity. A few brief twinkles proved that there was something more out there than the few billion souls on this planet, but were too faint to make out any constellations. I remembered summer evenings at home in Kent, when I'd lie outside in the garden, staring up at the clear night sky, one of our dozy Labradors across my legs. No matter how my day had gone, it had always calmed me. I could see why Roger headed straight for the rooftop this evening.

Because there he was, leaning against the wall running around the perimeter of the roof. It was too dark to make out anything beyond his general shape and the occasional flicker of his lit cigarette, but it was him. In my haste, I tripped over the step onto the roof and bumped my head on the concrete ledge, my exclamation of pain blocked out by the door slamming shut behind me. Roger jumped in response and dropped the cigarette over the ledge before turning to face me.

'Sorry.'

There was no response for a while. Then, 'What are you doing up here?' His words weren't accusatory or hostile. It was hard to tell what they were, his tone was so flat and defeated. Suddenly I was grateful that I couldn't see his face, his voice was shattered enough.

I buried my fingers inside the sweater and bit my lip. I'd hoped not to be asked that particular question as I wasn't sure how I'd reply. In the end, I decided on the truth. 'I don't really know.'

A pause as Roger lit a new cigarette. 'You should go home.

'A seven hour flight is hard to get at short notice.' As witticisms went, it wasn't amazing, but it earned me a snort from him. Encouraged, I moved closer towards him. He didn't complain and so I leaned on the ledge next to him. The whole evening had become so jumbled in my mind that I almost relished this silence now, a chance to simply _be_. The cooler air helped, taking away some of the sweat and anguish of the day. Part of me wished we could stay like this indefinitely, not speaking and not bringing up the major issues.

'Seriously, Cat, what do you want?' He spoilt the silence with a heavy sigh.

The dark made it easier to say what I really felt. When I'd left Collins I'd been unsure whether I'd make the journey to the roof at all, and even less sure why I'd do it if I did. Now it seemed obvious. 'I wanted to make sure you were okay.' Another snort of laughter, less appreciated this time. 'What?'

'You wanted to make sure I was okay? Jesus.' He punctuated his words with a deep drag on his cigarette.

'What's wrong with that?' The wobble in my voice betrayed the hurt I felt at him all but rejecting my interest him.

'Nothing.' He spoke the words to the night air. 'Nothing's wrong with that. I just...' He sighed and we fell into silence again.

A noise from the street made us both look down. In the streetlights, we could see a young woman leaning against the wall of the building opposite, clutching her stomach as if she was in pain. For a moment I imagined the worst – a stabbing, blood pouring everywhere, a girl's life ending on a wet New York street. Then I realised the noise we'd heard was somebody, a man, falling over a bin, landing in amongst the rubbish with no grace whatsoever. She'd reacted as any of us would – she was laughing, hysterically and uncontrollably. As the man picked himself up, covered in food peelings and other unmentionable items, her laughter only increased, rapidly becoming shrieks as he advanced towards her, threatening to wipe his hands on her.

'They're having fun.'

'Yes.' The Roger Davis Change of Subject. A classic. But it wouldn't work tonight. 'Why didn't you tell me?' The words were blurted out before I could stop myself.

The end of the cigarette flickered as he took a drag on it. I reasoned he could probably do with the extra time and went back to watching the couple below us, who were now reconciled, the man's grubby arm around her waist. My only conclusion was that they were drunk; why else would she allow him to touch her with god-alone knew what on his skin?

'Because,' Roger replied sooner than I'd expected and I immediately turned my head to look at him even in the dark. 'Because... I didn't want you to hate me.'

It was like being winded, as though the evening's events had only just caught up with me. 'Hate you?' I repeated breathlessly. 'You thought I'd...? Am I that shallow?'

'No! I didn't mean...' A sigh and the flicker of the cigarette. Then, in a more measured tone, 'I didn't mean that. I meant...' He sighed again as he hunted for the right words. 'I meant I liked feeling normal. I liked... I liked how you made me feel.'

'I wasn't always very nice to you.' Mystified by his explanation, the words fell out again, as I frowned and instantly regretted the movement; my head was starting to throb a little, either from the alcohol or the contact with the concrete.

'No, I know. That's what I mean. You wouldn't understand.' The cigarette butt fell to the floor and was ground out. Roger turned away from the city night and leaned back against the ledge. There was a finality in his words. It was as though he was used to people not understanding and had given up trying. The same thought I'd had about Mark days earlier crossed my mind: Roger was surrounded by friends who cared about him but acted as though he was all alone in the world.

'Try me.' I felt Roger throw me a doubtful look and ventured to nudge him gently with my elbow. 'You owe me that much.'

'You're not going to give up, are you?' There was a hint of surprise in his voice. He gave a sigh of resignation. 'You've seen how the others treat me. Mark, Collins. Even Maureen. Like I'm some sort of time-bomb just waiting to go off.'

'They care about you. And you don't always make that easy,' I added in an undertone, only proving his point about treating him like a time-bomb

'I know. I know all of that, you're right. Why do you always have to be right?' He gave me a gentle nudge back.

'It's a gift.'

'Being with you was different. You treated me like I was normal. That's a pretty big thing for me. People don't tend to behave normally around someone like me.' He gave a shake of his head. 'Like I said, you probably wouldn't understand.'

'Why not?'

'Oh come on.'

'What?'

'Cat, you're one of the most normal people I've ever met. You're... perfect.'

I smiled. 'I'm really not. My hair's terrible and my thighs are too huge. Believe me, my mother could give you a whole list of things that make me so much less than perfect.'

'Your mother's an idiot.'

'Oh you've met her?' I was rewarded with a small chuckle from Roger. 'What I'm saying is that I'm not what you think I am, Roger. I'm... so not normal.'

'So what's wrong with you then?'

My body tensed up, the life I'd left behind suddenly rushing up on me. When I'd left England last week I had expected to be having this conversation one day, explaining who I was and why I was here. I hadn't expected to be revealing it all so soon, or in this way. For a moment I considered back-tracking, doing what Roger was so good at himself and walking away. It would be easier by far. I could leave this mess behind me, find somewhere new. There were other cities in America. I could start again.

Eventually I had to stop pretending I even had a choice anymore.

'My father's a millionaire. Or a multi-millionaire I don't know, it's hard to keep track. It's not the kind of thing you ask, is it? Anyway. He's a banker. We... well, my parents... they own this big house in Kent and a cottage by the sea in Cornwall and a villa in Spain and a chateau in France. Oh, and the chalet in the Alps. I always forget that one because I never go, I hate snow. And... oh, they bought me this apartment in London, in Kensington, when I graduated. And a car. My brother and sister and I went to boarding school, I've never had a real job before, just a few favours for family friends, and my father pays my credit card off each month.' I took a breath and for a moment considered stopping. Then the words continued to come, like word vomit. 'My father didn't want me to come to New York. I bought the plane tickets before he could say much but he cancelled my credit card afterwards. I'm supposed to be getting married, you see. He's called Sam, he's an actor, his father's some minor lord in England. It's all planned and paid for, the perfect match, all the magazines at home are covering it, everybody's so excited.' I paused for breath again, my heart pounding in my chest and my head. I never talked so much about myself; I'd never been given much opportunity in my previous life. Sam had very much had the monopoly on that.

'Except you?' Roger said suddenly, quietly.

'Sorry?'

'You're three thousand miles away from home without an engagement ring and you've never once mentioned the wedding. I'm guessing you're not that excited.' He shrugged. 'But... I don't understand... What has this got to do with me?'

'Being normal.' I looked into his eyes, picked out by the reflected city lights. 'My whole life has been run by my parents. I've done everything they wanted. How normal is that?' As my words died away on the air, I found myself immediately needing to justify what I'd said. 'I don't mean like my life is anything like yours, it's not like I'm pretending it's as serious or awful or anything, I'm just saying...' The words got away from me again. I was never drinking again. Or falling over.

'You're just saying?' As he prompted me, Roger's hand slipped into mine, a familiar and comforting warmth against my own freezing fingers.

'Normal.' I took a deep breath. 'We could try and be normal together. Sorry, that was really cheesy wasn't it?' Blood rushed to my face.

Roger, however, broke into a proper laugh for the first time all evening and took hold of my other hand as well. 'No, it's... it's very you,' he informed me. Gently, he pulled me closer to him and kissed my forehead, before wrapping his arms around me. I willingly pressed myself against him, keen for the warmth and the feeling of being close to him once again. Burying my head in his shoulder, I breathed in the scent I hadn't even been aware that I'd become fond of. It wasn't like being with Sam, with his designer aftershaves and dry-cleaned suits. Roger smelt of cigarettes and the musky scent of beer, whilst his denim jacket smelt more homely than freshly-laundered. It wasn't unpleasant.

'I'm sorry.' With one hand stroking my unruly hair, Roger murmured his words into the top of my head. Without my needing to speak, he explained. 'For not telling you.'

I lifted my head to look at him. 'It wasn't any of my business. I'm sorry you had to.'

There was a pause and then he pressed his lips against mine. 'You're right again,' he said softly. 'You're not normal. Now,' he picked my hands up again. 'You're freezing! We should definitely go inside.' He tugged me towards the rooftop door. 'How are you feeling now?'

'Better,' I said, just as my legs wobbled underneath me and he had to wrap an arm around me to prevent me falling in the floor.

'Obviously. How much did you drink?'

'I don't know.' The party seemed an age ago, the world already splitting into two: before and after. Even then, I could sense the importance of that moment, Roger's arm wrapped around my waist, the silence between us finally broken. Somewhere in the back of my head, I could feel a thousand questions itching to be answered and yet for the moment, I was content. There would be time in the future to learn about the whys and the wherefores. Over the following months I'd learn all I could ever need to know about Roger Davis and his life. Right now, this was enough.

'Okay, let's have a look at you.' Roger halted as we reached the landing outside his and Mark's apartment. The dim interior lighting clearly revealed me in one of my worst states ever. 'Christ, what's this?' He touched my forehead and I winced. 'What happened?'

'I fell over.'

He ran his thumb lightly over the rapidly forming lump and a million things seemed to whizz through his eyes. I closed my own, not wanting to have to decipher his thoughts right now, perfectly content to simply stay where we were. I was already dreading tomorrow's hangover.

Roger sighed again heavily. 'What am I going to do with you, Catherine?' he said softly.

'Catherine?' Startled, I frowned.

'What? Come on, what sort of multimillionaire banker would name his daughter after an animal?' He pushed my hair out of my eyes. 'Besides. It suits you.'

'It's horrible.'

'It's lovely.' He gave another tug on my waist. 'Come on.' He slid the door to his apartment open.

'What about...?' I gestured vaguely downstairs to where my own apartment was waiting. I expected it might be about the only night that the place was bearable now that the weather had changed so completely. It still didn't seem especially appealing right now though, not when I could feel Roger's heartbeat against my own.

'You really think I'm letting you sleep by yourself? After the amount you've had to drink and almost knocking yourself out? You'll probably choke on your own vomit and die or something.' He hastily added, 'I'll sleep on the floor.'

I smiled. 'You don't have to.'

He smiled back and led me into the apartment.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks for the reviews :)**

* * *

><p>I'd fallen asleep almost as soon as my head had hit the pillow and from the light filtering in through the window when I woke up the next day, I knew it was not only quite late in the morning but also yet another scorching day. Blinking in the morning sun, the previous evening came back to me in dribs and drabs. As the important facts flashed through my mind, I turned over, hoping to find that at least some of what had happened was true.<p>

The bed was empty next to me, although a Roger-shaped depression was still in the slightly lumpy mattress. For a moment I was disappointed, and then I noticed the scrap of paper resting on the pillow next to me. I picked it up.

_Gone out. Something I had to do. See you later. X_

It was brief and vague, like much of what Roger had said to me in the past. No change there then. Even so, I felt a smile spread across my face as I swung my feet out of bed and picked my sweater up off the floor. There was going to be a later. That had to be a good thing.

Having slept in my dress from last night, I was looking forward to a shower and a change of clothes before I went to work that afternoon. It was more than a good job that I wasn't working my usual morning shift as I'd already have missed three hours I realised as I left Roger's bedroom and made my way into the large open plan living area of the apartment.

'Cat?' Mark gave a half-strangled squeak from where he was fiddling with his camera by the window. 'I... didn't realise...'

Pleased to have something in my hands to fiddle with, I twisted the sweater in different directions. 'Roger insisted. He thought I'd... choke on my own vomit or something... silly really.' My head was feeling much better than it should have done this morning, although I'd later find that I had a spectacular bruise across my left temple.

Mark stared at me for several seconds, his face completely unreadable for the first time since I'd met him. Then he nodded briefly. 'Right. Okay.' He turned back to his camera.

An awkward silence descended. It was alarming. I was almost used to this from Roger now, I could cope with it. But Mark had always been the easy one to talk to, the one I'd found myself clicking with from the moment I met him. Something had changed and it was obvious what it was.

'What are you doing?' I tried to make the conversation as normal as possible, even if I had just stumbled out of his housemate's bedroom in last night's clothes. 'Is that a new film you're working on?'

Mark didn't reply for several seconds and when he did it wasn't very enlightening. 'It's just some stuff, nothing important.' He glanced up at me again. 'Roger's gone out by the way.'

'He left a note.'

'A note?'

'Yes.' I saw Mark raise his eyebrows but didn't really question it at the time. 'Do you know where he's gone?'

'I've given up trying to understand Roger.' The reply was abrupt and careless. I was also ninety per cent certain that it wasn't true. From what I knew of their relationship, I knew that Mark would never give up on Roger. It seemed as though they'd already been through a lot together.

Even so, it was clear that right now Mark didn't want a conversation with me about anything, let alone Roger. And that hurt more than I was willing to admit to myself right at that moment. With very few more words, I left the apartment, but took that hurt with me.

Once again, work was an effective distraction, making me wonder if I'd have had the idea to escape to New York this summer at all if I'd been working in England. Maybe this was how everybody else, everybody normal, managed to block out the problems in their lives. This was why people didn't go mad, I thought as I took orders and cleared tables. This was what kept people in relationships and situations that ordinarily they wouldn't think twice about leaving.

The shift went well, probably as a result of my throwing myself into the work. No broken plates, no wrong orders and, as Lydia had said, the tips were fantastic. I earned almost as much from the gratuities placed down by satisfied customers as I did from the shift itself. When I clocked off as the cafe shut that evening, I felt as though I'd achieved something that day. It was a feeling I hadn't had very often in my life.

Already in a good mood, my mouth immediately sprang into a particularly ridiculous grin as I stepped outside the cafe and immediately came face to face with Roger. I'd have been more embarrassed about my gurning if Roger's face hadn't been equally as animated.

'Hey.'

'Hello.' I lowered my eyes, trying to hide the sheer joy that was sparkling in them. This was _later_. He'd been as good as his word. In my experience of Roger Davis so far, that was a pretty big deal. 'What are you doing here?'

'I came to check you hadn't broken your leg in a freak accident,' he deadpanned and then smiled again. 'How's your head?'

I touched the bruise on my forehead. 'Okay if I don't touch it.'

'Then don't.' He took my hand and pulled it away.

For a moment I enjoyed the feeling of being back with him again. Then I tried my best to stop gazing at him like a lovesick teenager. 'Seriously, what are you doing here?'

'I thought we could grab some dinner.'

I raised my eyebrows. 'Like... a date?'

'Like a date.' Roger's eyes sparkled with amusement. 'Unless you have other plans?'

'Nothing.'

'Perfect.' He took my hand and led me down the street. 'Good shift?'

'Yes thank you. No breakages and no injuries,' I informed him proudly, enjoying the chance to share my small achievements with someone.

'That's my girl.' He was genuinely pleased for me, and those three words sent a thrill through me, with every connotation they had embedded within them. 'We'll make a waitress of you yet.'

He was in an unusually cheerful mood this evening, a world away from the brooding and Byronic character he usually presented to the world. It made a nice if unexpected change, and a small part of me wondered and hoped it had something to do with having my hand firmly held in his.

Our hands stayed welded together for most of the rest of the evening as we ate at a small cafe around the corner from my workplace and shared stories about our childhoods. Given the revelations of the night before, it was a relief to discuss something non-flammable and relatively normal. As Roger filled me in on the farm he'd grown up on upstate and I related stories from the summers we'd spent in Norfolk with my grandparents and France as a family, we each basked in the glow of each other's laughter and interest. If we were avoiding the big issues, we were having a good time doing it. By the time we left the cafe, we were both breathless with giggles and slightly too much wine.

'So why did you leave?' I asked as we stepped out onto the street. The way Roger had described the home his parents still lived in, it sounded idyllic, like something out of a story book. He claimed to have spent every waking moment outside during the summer, followed only by a select group of friends and a hairy dog called Flea. 'It sounds perfect.'

'Yeah, I suppose it was.' He nodded as we crossed the street and headed towards home. 'For a time. You know, when you're ten all you need is your friends and a dog. But things change.'

'When did you move here?'

There was a pause but a quick glance showed that Roger was merely trying to remember. 'I don't know. Must be... eighty-two? It was just after the Christmas after graduation anyway, I was only eighteen. I packed up a few clothes, my guitar and my savings and moved here without much notice. My parents weren't too happy, but...' He shrugged.

'Do you see them much? Now I mean.'

He shook his head. 'No. They call sometimes and threaten to visit if I don't keep in touch a bit more often. But I haven't seen them for about six years.'

My jaw dropped and I stopped dead in the street, forcing Roger to stop too. 'Six years?'

'Is that a problem?'

'No.' I shook my head, but found it impossible to truly believe my own words. 'It's just... six years, that's ages, it's... Don't you miss them?'

'I guess. Do you miss yours?' It was a low blow and he knew it as he immediately moved on without expecting me to answer. 'I'm not the only one. If Mark had his way, he'd have spent just as long away from his parents. It's only because his sister keeps having more and more kids that he feels obliged to visit at all, and then his mother goes through this whole Jewish-guilt trip thing on him, about how it's a shame he hasn't settled down yet and that time's moving on, yada yada. It's no wonder the poor guy's completely neurotic. Sometimes being an only child has its perks, nobody for you to measure up against.'

I smiled as I thought of Amelia and my brother James. With her perfect marriage and his high-powered job, there was an awful lot for me to measure up against. Perhaps Roger was right on this one point.

'Anyway,' he added now, 'I thought you came here to escape from your family.'

'I did.'

'Not much difference then is there?' Seeing I was still doubtful, he pulled me in towards him and slipped his arms around my waist. 'Cat, come on. I'm thirty, I'm not supposed to see my parents every other weekend. And it's kind of complicated anyway.'

'Complicated how?' I fixed him with what I'd intended to be a steady stare but was spoilt rather by the wine having gone straight to my head. My slightly wobbly pupils only served to make it easier for Roger to swerve the question.

'You're drunk,' he said after a short pause, smiling and resting his forehead against mine. 'Oh, sorry,' he apologised, as I winced when he pressed against my bruised temple. He pressed his lips against the blue flesh. 'Come on, we should get to bed. I assume you're working the same shift tomorrow?'

I nodded as we made our way indoors. 'Thankfully,' I giggled as I stumbled over the threshold. 'You're a terrible influence on me, Roger Davis.'

'I don't think I had much to do with your drinking last night,' he said, raising his eyebrows pointedly. 'Nor do I remember force-feeding you wine this evening. Therefore, I'd like to disagree with your statement.'

'Oh really?' Once again my attempt at being stern, even in jest, fell flat as I stumbled over. Even Roger's reactions weren't quick enough to stop me slumping to the floor briefly before scrambling to my feet. 'Ouch.'

'Come on, sit down here for a minute.' Roger guided me onto the bottom few steps which led up towards our apartments. 'Can't take you anywhere, can I?' he teased, as he eased me onto the step and then sat down beside me. 'Is that the other knee now?'

I inspected the graze on my left knee. 'Looks like it. At least they match,' I added as I compared it with the scar on my right knee which was beginning to slowly heal.

'Well I do love symmetry.' Roger shook his head. 'But really, Cat. Why do you do this to yourself?'

'Do what?'

'This.' He gestured towards me in general. When I still gave him a baffled look, he elaborated a little. 'The drinking. It seems like every night you leave the building you have to drink. And I'm not saying I never do... but... I don't seem quite as accident-prone as you.' I probably gave the question more thought than he'd intended me to, as he said after a few seconds, 'It's none of my business.'

'No, it's fine.' I shook my head. 'I just... I don't know. I don't normally behave like this. I don't drink much at home at all.'

'I'd never have guessed.' Roger grinned and then nudged me. 'So what is it about me that drives you to drink?'

I smiled and nudged him back. 'Nothing. I suppose I just feel different when I've had a drink. It's so unlike me, so unlike _Catherine_.' I rolled my eyes to emphasise my distaste of the person I'd been my whole life. 'I suppose I like the freedom it brings. It's like I'm a different person.'

He studied my face carefully, before nodding. 'Yeah. I guess I know what you mean.'

'Really?'

'I used to do something similar myself. But for what it's worth,' he said, stroking my face with one hand, 'I kind of like the person you are when you're not drinking.'

That sickening smile spread across my face again even as my skin burned underneath his touch. 'It's worth quite a lot,' I murmured.

He smiled back. 'Come on. Let's get you home.'


	13. Chapter 13

'We have to stop meeting like this.' Stepping outside of the cafe at the end of my shift the following evening, I greeted Roger.

He dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out. 'I know. I was just passing.'

'Oh yes?' I raised my eyebrows.

'Yeah.' Roger rather spoilt his nonchalant stance by putting an arm around my shoulders and steering me away down the street. 'So I was thinking we could get a takeaway and watch some trashy cable channel until we want to gouge our own eyes out. Sound good?'

'Put like that? How could it sound anything but amazing?' I laughed. Secretly it sounded pretty good, the sort of night that I'd once fantasised about having with Sam. It would have made a change from the fancy meals and parties full of people who were more interested in being seen and photographed than having a good time. Sam, however, would never have settled for the quiet night in when there was the potential for further networking.

'Good day?'

'Not bad. You?'

'Not bad. How does Chinese sound?' His change of subject neatly side-stepped my ability to ask exactly what he'd done today, or indeed yesterday. I found it hard to believe that anyone could spend all day in the stuffy Avenue A apartments, and I'd already learnt that Roger and employment weren't the most comfortable of companions. Maybe he'd followed the same routine we'd had last week, heading into the city centre and spending the afternoon lurking in the shade avoiding the sun. It was certainly true that he seemed in a reasonable enough mood, suggesting that his day had indeed been 'not bad'.

Chinese, I decided, was perfect, and a short time later we left the small neon lit shop clutching brown paper bags. The smell was enough to make us speed up in order to get home quicker and dive into the veritable banquet we'd managed to order between us. As we took the many tinfoil trays and packages out of the bags, I wondered exactly what planet we'd been on when we'd kept adding more and more to the order.

'If I eat even half of this, I will be the size of a house,' I declared, surveying the heaving table of food in front of us. 'Why did you order this much?'

'Me? You were the one who kept saying how much you liked everything on the menu!' Roger laughed as he handed me a plate.

'Well I do.' I bit my lip and glanced down at my stomach. It was the flattest it had been in my life since moving to New York, yet my brain still seemed hard-wired to be greedy. I doubted it was my most attractive trait. 'Not usually on the same plate though, I was only saying...'

'Cat, it's okay.' Roger began to pile rice onto his own plate. 'It's Saturday night. If you can't buy an obscene amount of food then, when can you? Besides... it looks amazing.' He glanced up from the foil tray filled with sweet and sour pork. 'Come on. I can't eat it all myself.'

Following suit, I piled far more food than I needed onto my plate, aware that at least as much again was still languishing in the scattered trays on the kitchen worktop. 'I should give you something towards all of this,' I said as I followed Roger to the sofa.

'It's fine. Do you want a drink?' He waved his beer at me, poised to get me one from the fridge.

'Oh, yes, thanks.' I could mask the taste of beer with food. 'But seriously,' I continued as he made his way to the kitchen, 'I can't ask you to pay for all of this.'

'You didn't. Here.' He handed me a glass. 'It's not exactly Cristal, like Collins said, but I think it's a bit more you.' He raised his eyebrows in answer to my confused face. 'I've seen you drinking beer. It's not a pretty sight.'

I pulled an embarrassed face and took a sip of the admittedly pleasant tasting sparkling wine. The realisation that he'd bought a bottle especially for me only made me more determined to contribute towards this evening's feast. 'Honestly, Roger, I don't mind. I've got some money saved up from tips now and this really is...'

'I don't want your money. This is on me.' He spoke in a way which was supposed to close the conversation off, something aided by his turning the TV on and tuning into a particularly loud gameshow on a local network station. It should have been my cue to dig into my meal and at least try and make some headway through the hideous amount of food piled up on the worktop.

Instead I tried again. 'I'd still really like to...'

'For God's sake, Cat, just leave it!' The snarl was unexpected and I found myself pulling myself into a more upright position, every muscle tensing as if poised for flight. 'I've already said I'm paying for it. The last thing you told me was your parents had cut you off without a cent so don't try and come over all princessy with me!'

The poised muscles came in useful. After a mere second of staring at Roger, unable to believe that such vicious words had come out of the mouth I was beginning to expect so much more from, I placed my plate decisively on the table, grabbed my bag and made towards the door.

'Cat, wait!' Roger somehow moved quicker than I could and I found him blocking off my exit. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean that.'

'You sounded like you did.'

'I know, I...' He raked his fingers through his hair as if he'd find something to say in the mass of blond waves. 'Please, Cat. Don't go.'

I studied his face carefully. He changed so quickly, from the Roger I could happily spend hours with, the Roger I wanted to get closer to, to this angry hurtful man who could do and say anything. Right now, the last thing I wanted was to step away from him, but when would he turn again?

I swallowed hard. 'I was only trying to be nice.'

'I know.'

'I know you don't have a job so I thought...'

'Yeah, I know.' He nodded again. 'It's not your fault, Cat. I didn't mean to snap at you. I just... wanted to do this for you.' Rolling his eyes and smilingly a little self-consciously, he added, 'Trying to compete with all your rich friends and I can't even pay for a Chinese without causing a scene.' He placed his hands on my elbows. 'Cat, I'm really sorry.'

I wondered when this apologising would end. What's more, I wondered when I'd stop accepting them.

'You don't have to compete with anyone,' I said, putting my hands onto his chest.

'Yeah, I'm sure I beat your actor-lord fiancé hands down, don't I?'

'I'm here, aren't I?' For once I was able to give him a steady gaze.

He looked down at the floor. 'Yeah, I know. Sorry. I just... I'm not good at this.'

'Good at what?'

'_This_.' He made a vague gesture which I assumed was meant to refer to the way he was now holding onto my waist, the way I was playing with his shirt collar. 'It's been... so long. I'm a disaster.'

'You're not so bad,' I said eventually. 'I've known worse.'

'Really? Like who?'

'My actor-lord fiancé.' I smiled and was rewarded with a reflected one from Roger. 'I'm not here for your money, Roger.'

'Just as well.'

'But while we're on the subject...' I saw an opportunity to get through to the real Roger Davis for once. 'How _do_ you pay for stuff?' Much as I liked Roger, the idea that he lived completely at the expense of his room-mate was a little off-putting, an entirely hypocritical attitude.

He smiled, knowing when he'd have to surrender some knowledge. 'I get these cheques every now and again. I... wrote this song you see, and it did quite well. It's used on TV sometimes, or in films, and I get some money. It's not a huge amount.'

'That's amazing. What's the song? Would I have heard of it?'

My enthusiasm was clearly too much for him as the almost imperceptible veil came down over his face again. 'I doubt it.'

'Maybe you could play it for me some time.'

'Maybe. Come on, let's eat before the food gets too cold.'

My father had always despaired of how little interest I'd shown in his business, even being known to insist that I couldn't possibly be his daughter. Whilst my brother followed the markets to a point of obsession and even my sister had shown a fascination with the intricate methods of investment undertaken at my father's workplace, I'd gone through my life with what I'd always seen as a healthy disinterest in the finer points of merchant banking. It was true that I had no interest in short-selling or percentage point increases.

And yet something my father was a big advocate of had obviously rubbed off on me, I mused, as I allowed Roger to steer me back towards the sofa. I knew when I was on top and I didn't push it any further. My father would surely be proud.

* * *

><p>My father would certainly not have been proud of me an hour later, as I pushed my third plate of Chinese away from me and slumped back on the sofa. 'I'm stuffed.' When Roger regarded me with a look of amusement over his own third plate, I asked, 'What?'<p>

'Nothing. I just wondered if I'd ever hear you say that.'

'Hey!'

'I'm joking! Cat, I'm just joking!' He put his own plate and sat back beside me, grinning, placing his arm along the back of the sofa. 'It's nice to see someone enjoy their food so much.'

'Be a pig, you mean.'

'No, I mean not pick at stuff like Maureen does.' He picked up his bottle of beer and finished it. 'That was good Chinese. You need to chill out.'

'Coming from you.'

'Yes, coming from me.' He smiled as I rested my head against his hand. His fingers gently threaded their way through my hair and I closed my eyes, suddenly aware quite how tired I was. It had been a long day; the cafe had been surprisingly busy and dehydration had driven me out of bed early that morning. I was working a split shift the next day and I was already wondering how I'd managed to drag myself out of bed in time for the morning stint in the past. Under Roger's calming touch, I could happily have gone to sleep there and then.

'So this is nice.'

'Mmmm,' I agreed, still keeping my eyes shut.

Then the apartment door slid open and the peace was shattered.

'Oh.' I opened my eyes to see Mark standing mid-stride near the doorway, looking between Roger and me, his mouth slightly agape. 'I'm sorry, I didn't realise.' His camera dangled in his hand and a rush of affection passed through me, causing me to sit up, pulling down the flimsy mini skirt I'd put on that morning. He looked suddenly lost, unsure whether he was welcome in his own apartment. I felt terrible.

Roger didn't seem to be reading the situation in the same way that I was. Whilst my movement had caused his hand to become untangled from my hair, he coolly turned his attention back to the television. 'There's some Chinese on the top if you fancy it. And a beer in the fridge.'

I offered up a small smile as Mark continued to look at us. His face was no more readable than it had been yesterday morning and that feeling of hurt that had lain dormant for the past couple of days returned with a vengeance. It was as though the man I'd bumped into on my first day in New York what seemed like months ago had vanished, replaced with a suspicious imposter who could hardly stand to look at me. I shifted a tiny distance away from Roger, as if that would help.

Finally, Mark replied. 'I'm just going to head straight to bed I think. It's pretty late.'

Roger lifted his eyes from the television. 'Okay. See you tomorrow then.'

'Yeah. Good night. Good night Cat.' He nodded briefly, a gesture intended to take in both of us at once, and then went into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. It felt very much as though he'd placed a barrier between him and us.

'Hey, you okay?' Roger's hand found its way onto my back. The sheer size of his hands continued to astonish me, as well as make my stomach behave in entirely unnatural ways. Now the weight on my back was reassuring and grounding, reminding me of the benefits of being in this situation, whilst simultaneously spreading an altogether different kind of warmth throughout my body.

'Yes. Why?'

'Don't know. You just looked...' He gestured vaguely with his other hand as he grappled for the words. 'You know.'

'No!' I laughed, some of the tension melting away. Pulling at my hair, I said, 'I don't know, it's just... Mark.'

'What about him?'

It was my time to gesture vaguely, this time after his roommate. 'Don't you think he's behaving weirdly?'

Roger shrugged. 'In what way?'

'Just...' I shrugged too. 'He's... he's just been a bit strange ever since...'

'Ever since?'

I rolled my eyes. 'Us. You know...'

'Oh.' Then, 'Is that a problem?'

'No, not a problem...' I was being flaky. 'I was just saying. It doesn't matter.' As I came to an abrupt halt, I realised that Roger had been massaging my shoulders with one hand whilst I'd been waffling. Now that I was actually concentrating, I realised how welcome it was. And how it was sending a thrill down my spine.

There was a period of silence, during which I barely noticed we weren't speaking. Roger's fingers moved in expert circles around my shoulders, giving me one of the best massages in my life, and I'd been to some of the best spas money could pay for. Never had I enjoyed the sensation more.

'Ready for bed?'

I jumped and turned to look at Roger. 'With... you?' Quite why I was suddenly so dazzled I had no idea. Where else did I think this evening had been heading? Where else had I wanted it to go?

'That was kind of my thought.' He nodded slowly. Then his face changed, the cheerful, confident certainty being replaced with the flickering self-doubt I'd witnessed before. 'Or I can sleep on the sofa if you prefer, or you can go home or...'

It was a dampener on the evening, that was for sure, as all the tension returned to my muscles. Wherever I'd thought the evening was going, I'd clearly been wrong. And now it was my turn to reassure him.

'No, that would be... nice.' I smiled, meaning every word. It would be. But even as I slipped into bed beside him, the very presence of him next to me made my stomach loop alarmingly. It wasn't a good night's sleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Roger's side of the bed was empty when I woke up the next morning. Although I'd been unable to imagine what waking up alongside him would be like, I was still surprised; where had he found to go so early on a Sunday morning? There was the possibility he was especially religious and would be found in a church, but I dismissed that almost as soon as it had entered my head. His hands did things no good Catholic boy could do.

I could do with one of those massages this morning, as I eased back into the clothes I'd worn yesterday, disgusted at the way they were still damp with sweat. Tossing the t-shirt Roger had lent me aside, I rolled my shoulders experimentally. Rarely had I lain so very still in a bed at night, terrified to roll over in case I touched the person next to me. Somehow, it had felt like the thing to do with Roger beside me. I had no idea why.

It seemed almost like a repeat of the last time I'd stayed at Roger's as I opened his door to find Mark in the living area. I wondered if the two of them always rose so early on a Sunday; it seemed an unlikely thing for them to do. A more worrying thought was that they didn't usually; perhaps I was the reason for their dawn activity.

Whatever the reason, I was only pleased I hadn't padded out of Roger's room still dressed only in his barely thigh skimming t-shirt. Mark gave me a cold enough glance at it was.

'Morning,' I managed eventually, forcing myself to be cheerful.

'Morning.' Mark tried to close the conversation before it even began. I wasn't going to allow that to happen this time.

'Mark, I know you're not... thrilled... about... me and Roger.' I spoke haltingly and a little breathlessly. 'I know it's a bit... awkward.' He looked at me. 'But... it's not all bad, I mean... Roger's a big boy, I'm sure he knows what he's doing and... well, I'm not all bad.' My laughed was forced and Mark didn't share it. The words dried up and I folded my arms self-consciously.

'You think I... don't like you?' He frowned as I semi-nodded. 'Why?'

I shrugged. 'You've been really weird over the last few days and I...' Shrugging again, I added, 'I don't know.'

'Cat, of course I like you! I'm _worried_ about you! Both of you.'

'Worried?'

'Yes! Worried!' Mark rolled his eyes.

'Why? If you mean because of...' I tailed off, unsure how to refer to Roger's condition. Biting my lip, I decided to be a big girl. 'Because of Roger's HIV, it's fine...'

'Is it?' He raised his eyebrows, raising more questions in my mind than I could cope with at that moment. Continuing, he said, 'I'm not talking about that anyway.'

'Then what?'

For a moment he pursed his lips, seemingly about to say something vital. Then, like Collins before him, he shook his head and turned away. 'It's not my place.'

'Mark, please...' I started, but he instantly interrupted.

'Oh for god's sake, Cat!' A temper I hadn't known he owned suddenly erupted. 'I can't do this, not again! I've picked Roger up so many times before, tried to put him back together, and he's just about managed it so far. It's been hard, but he's managed it. But he can't do it again. Nor can I. Sooner or later he'll fuck up, because that's what he does, and you'll leave. And you know what, I won't blame you, and neither will he. But that won't stop him half-killing himself. And then it'll be me that he'll come crying to, to fix him all over again.'

The strong words momentarily took my breath away, sobs choking my throat. 'You don't have much faith in him,' I said eventually, bravado taking the place of sheer fear. Mark had spoken with such passionate distaste of his friend, a passion that could only have been driven by experience. They'd known each other a long time, if anyone understood Roger it had to be Mark. It wasn't a comforting thought.

And Mark's next words didn't soften the blow at all. 'Eight years and two rounds of withdrawal don't leave you with much faith.' He sighed as my face registered my shock. 'Look, Cat... speak to Roger. I shouldn't have said anything.' Running a hand over his face, he strode into his bedroom and shut the door, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room, an abyss opening beneath my feet.

* * *

><p>'You're getting good at this!' Lydia seemed impressed as I balanced five plates on my way back into the kitchen. 'Have you been practising?'<p>

'No.' Dazed, I shook my head, and glanced at the plates, a little surprised myself at how smoothly the shift had gone. Four hours had disappeared in a flash of orders and special requests, and I now had the best part of three hours to myself before starting my next shift. The free time loomed ahead of me, daunting and empty of anything apart from my own thoughts. I really didn't want to spend my time in their company right now.

'I was joking.' Lydia rolled her eyes, smiling. Not for the first time, I wondered how she managed to remain so upbeat all the time. I'd found out from one of the other waitresses that she'd left Los Angeles only a few months earlier following the Northridge earthquake in January. Her family had been made homeless and her five brothers and sisters were now scattered across the country, either living with relatives or trying to find some work elsewhere. Lydia considered herself lucky to have found a room and a job; I wondered how lucky you'd have to be to avoid an earthquake in the first place.

'Anyway,' she continued now, double-checking an order before she left the kitchen. 'You better get on out there. Your fella's waiting for you.'

I was pleased my hands were empty of plates. 'My... fella?'

'The hot one.' Lydia gave me a wink. 'Well don't keep him waiting, or I'll take my lunch break now!' With a slight cackle, she headed back into the cafe.

My hands fumbled with my apron strings. Roger. Here. Again. We'd made no special plans, and now I came to think of it, I hadn't been aware of him really noting down my shifts for the next few days. Clearly he listened much more closely than any other man I'd ever come across. I should have been pleased. Instead, all I could think of were Mark's disgust-laden words that morning. Even seeing Roger's welcoming smile as I walked out into the cafe couldn't block out what he'd said, and so I led the way outside in silence, barely even returning Roger's greeting.

'How was the morning?' he asked as we stepped outside into the ever-sweltering midday sun. 'Break anything?' When I didn't reply or even acknowledge him, he touched my arm gently. 'Cat?'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

The confusion was written all over Roger's face. It was one of the things I'd grow to love about him, the way his emotions could be so easily read if he allowed them to be. Even his eyes seemed to change colour, clouding over as he struggled to understand what it was he'd done this time.

'I... told you, I didn't want...'

Cutting him off, I said, 'I didn't mean that. I meant... the drugs.'

Instantly the shutters came down on his face. 'What? What's Mark said?'

Clearly the lack of faith ran both ways. 'Nothing. That's not the point. Why didn't you tell me?'

The muscles in his jaw tensed up and his hands slid into his jeans pockets, as though he needed to put them somewhere for safe keeping. 'It didn't seem important.'

'Not important?'

'It's not like I'm still on them!'

'And what were they when you were on them?' I demanded, fire coursing through my veins and making me spit words out like bullets. 'Cocaine? E? Speed?'

'Heroin.' I gulped and Roger almost visibly became smaller, more defeated. Any of the steely resolve he had vanished and he spoke in a much quieter voice. 'And that's why I didn't tell you.'

I tried to appear undaunted. 'What is?'

He rolled his eyes. 'Girls like you don't go out with guys like me.'

'What?'

'Junkies, Cat. God, I bet you've never even come across a junkie. Do you even have them in your world?'

'Yes we do,' I retorted. 'Only we call them poor cousin Anthony.' The tension was broken suddenly and Roger's mouth curled upwards in a smirk. I ran a hand through my hair. 'How often is this going to happen, Roger? How often am I going to find out secrets about you?'

He held my gaze steadily before shaking his head. 'I don't know.'

It was honest but it wasn't the answer I was looking for. Wearily I sat down on a nearby bench, tucking my legs underneath me and sitting on my hands. My poor night of sleep seemed to catch up with me as I wondered exactly what I was doing here, with this man, having this conversation. Only a few weeks earlier I'd been engaged, a princess in my own little world. To think I'd _chosen_ this.

'So how long has it been?' I asked the question I felt was expected of me, even though I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

'A year or two.'

'Really specific.'

'I don't keep notes.' As I shot him a look filled with hurt and anger, he bit his lip and then sat down beside me. 'The last time was probably about eighteen months ago.'

'And before then?'

'I'd been clean for a couple of years. It was a blip.'

'And it won't happen again?' Roger's response was notable by its absence. I sighed and, despite myself, rested my head against his shoulder. It was clear he didn't expect such affection as he initially tensed up and then relaxed against me.

'I'm sorry.'

'You're good at that.'

'I have to be. I told you I was a disaster at this kind of thing.'

'I didn't expect you to be quite this shit,' I replied, for once straying into the sort of language more usually heard from Maureen and earning a chuckle from him. I continued in a softer voice. 'Roger, you've got to start telling me these things. Next thing is Maureen will be telling me about your secret love child or something.'

'That's not going to happen. _Really_ not.' I lifted my head to see the look of horror on Roger's face and to stifle a giggle of my own. He twisted a strange of my hair around a finger. 'Honestly, Cat. I'm sorry.'

'It's okay.' It was a lie but I couldn't say anything else. Not if I wanted his hand to stay exactly where it was.

'So are we okay?'

'We're okay.'


	15. Chapter 15

**Merry Christmas one and all :)**

* * *

><p>For the next week or so we saw little of anyone else apart from each other. At the end of each shift, I'd find Roger waiting outside in the street, smoking the end of a perfectly-timed cigarette, and we'd make our way to one of a select few places without any hesitation. Once there, we'd while away the time, talking in low voices or simply spending time with each other in silence. It was as though the rest of the world didn't exist for those few hours.<p>

I knew deep down that I should have found such an insular existence dull, and perhaps even a little unsettling. New York was supposed to offer me the chance to discover who I really was, to find my own way without having to listen to anybody else's views. I'd got on that plane looking for freedom and instead I'd found myself falling straight into another routine. What's more, I'd fallen into a routine virtually dictated by another man; if Sam had the ability to be reflective, he'd have found the whole scenario hilarious. I knew I should detest it.

Yet I didn't. I looked forward to the moments when I stepped outside into the Manhattan summer and my hand twisted around Roger's as naturally as though it had been doing it my whole life. The hours with him never quite seemed long enough, and at least while I was with him I wasn't thinking back over how Mark had looked at me the last time I'd seen him. These moments with Roger were what I seemed to have traded my friendship with Mark for; I should try to enjoy them.

We spent some time in a cafe around the corner from our building, nursing coffees until they turned cold and we were forced to abandon them. The most time, however, was spent in our favourite place, and if the subway seemed to become ever more unbearably hot, the feeling of a cool breeze on my skin when we reached Central Park was some consolation.

My skin had lost its pale English pallor but there was still a long way to go until it reached the perfect shade of caramel I'd always enjoyed after summering in my parents' villa in Spain. Whilst Roger preferred to stay in the shade, on a few occasions I was able to convince him to face up to the sunlit world.

'Stop being such a vampire!' I pouted in mock sulkiness as I dragged him out from the cover of trees. 'You'll love it.'

'I will never understand your need for baking yourself,' he insisted, even as he discarded his ever-present denim jacket and threw it down as a pillow on the grass. For my part, I was already stretched out on my front, my head buried deep in my arms, and my legs exposed to the sun in a new pair of shorts. 'You do know it makes you get wrinkles?'

'On my legs?' I lifted my head to give him a dubious look.

'Stranger things have happened.' Despite his insistence that I was crazy, he produced a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. With his eyes hidden, he somehow became easier to talk to; I wondered if those eyes would ever lose their power to leave me complete tongue-tied. 'You're already pretty tanned you know.'

'Good.'

'Is it? I thought you looked perfectly nice as you were.'

A smile tugged at my lips and I buried my head deeper in my arms. I had to stop grinning like this. 'Thank you. It's not about you though, is it?'

'You mean this isn't all for my benefit?' He lifted his sunglasses to glance down the full length of my legs.

'Shut up!' I gave him a shove and was about to settle myself down for a bask in the sun when he caught my left hand and held onto it.

He studied it briefly before speaking. 'You don't wear an engagement ring.'

I pulled it back off of him and glanced at my finger myself, taking in the all but completely chipped nail varnish and reddened knuckles. The streaks in my hair had faded to a hot pink now, worn out from all the showers I'd had recently, whilst my darker blonde roots were beginning to show. Along with my tan and the weight I'd lost, I was almost unrecognisable from the girl I'd been when I moved here only a fortnight ago. Yet it all came back to my left hand.

'No, it's at home.'

'At your home? Or with the fiancé?'

'I haven't given it back to him, if that's what you're asking.' I fired him a look before turning my attention back to my hands. 'I tried to, he wouldn't take it.'

'Which means?'

'I don't know! What's it supposed to mean?' He registered the unusually curt tone of voice with raised eyebrows and I tried to get myself back under control. 'I don't really know why we're having this conversation.'

Roger faked a nonchalance that I knew he didn't feel, shrugging his shoulders and leaving those infuriating sunglasses stubbornly in place. 'I was just asking.'

We lapsed into an uneasy silence. I gazed across the park, at where a dog-walker was being exercised extremely well by seven dogs of various breeds who seemed determined to pull in every direction but the same one. There were definitely some sights you only saw in New York.

I'd worn that ring for over a year, but it had never quite settled into me or become part of my everyday life. I'd caught it on clothes and scratched surfaces with it more times than I could count and on one hideous occasion had actually left it at the gym when I'd slipped it off in order to make it easier to put my tights back on. Thankfully they'd found it and saved it for me, otherwise Sam and his family would have been more than a little hacked off with me. It was a priceless heirloom, handed down from generation to generation, and it felt like it too, heavy and restricting around my finger. The central sapphire was stunning, as was the surround of diamonds, but it wasn't what I would have picked if I'd been given the choice. Still, one didn't complain when one was handed an engagement ring after all.

I'd adapted to life without it so easily that I'd hoped I'd be able to leave everything else behind me as quickly. Now it was clear that that just wasn't going to happen. Glancing back over at Roger, I remembered everything he'd been forced to share with me recently, things I felt certain he would have wanted to leave behind him if he could. I was reminded of another afternoon in the park, another conversation which had led down strange avenues: _'It's not the kind of thing you can leave behind that easily.'_ Roger could never escape from his past; maybe I owed it to him to show him mine.

'Sam said I should keep the ring for a bit, at least until I got back from New York,' I explained now in a quiet voice, facing away from Roger and letting my words drift across the park. 'I don't know why.'

'Oh come on, Cat.' Roger nudged me with his foot. 'You're not dumb.' I gave him a slightly mystified look. 'I'm guessing he didn't want to break up?'

The colour rushing to my face gave him all the answer he needed, but I replied anyway. 'He wasn't too thrilled.' I sighed. 'I suppose he thinks the same as everyone else does – this is all a phase and when I eventually give in and go home I'll be ready to be what they want me to be.'

'Which is?'

'Perfect.' I rolled my eyes and laughed, but felt far from happy. 'Which, you know, I try really hard to be!'

'You succeed. Mostly.'

'You must have very low standards, Mr Davis,' I teased.

'Or your family and fiancé are impossible.'

'I prefer that view,' I agreed, smiling.

'So,' Roger said at length, after we'd both lapsed into silence for a time, 'what was it about him that attracted you in the first place? If he's so impossible.'

In an attempt to deflect the question, I aimed for some humour. 'I must just have a thing for difficult men.' When it got no reaction I realised there was no way out of this unless I got up and walked away, something I'd dreamt of doing on numerous occasions in England. During formal dinners and stuffy receptions, I'd imagined pushing my chair back, placing my champagne glass on the table and walking away from whatever conversation was going on. Even the thought had given me a strange sense of satisfaction, although I would never have had the nerve to actually do it. Now, just when I knew I'd be able to do exactly that, I found that I didn't want to. Deep down, perhaps I wanted to have this conversation.

'Sam's not always impossible.' I wasn't sure if I was defending him or the choices I'd made in life. 'When I first met him it was different.'

'How did you meet?'

'He went to school with my brother. I went along to a party he had and we got along.' It didn't wholly sum up those first heady days of romance, when I'd woken up each morning to find a fresh delivery of flowers at my door and an invite to dinner. For all the faults I'd later discover he had, romantic gestures had always been Sam's thing. 'We went out on a few dates and things kind of went from there.'

'What kind of person is he? Apart from rich I mean. Good looking?'

I tried to hide the smile on my face and failed as I said, 'He's done some modelling...'

'Christ! He better have some sort of hideous personality deformity or I'm about to give up!'

'It's not a competition,' I reminded him.

'I think the modelling thing just made it into one.'

Shaking my head but smiling, I decided to attempt to answer his earlier question. 'Sam's... mainly okay. He's... well, he's intelligent and ambitious and generous.'

'He sounds great. Remind me why you're here?'

'Would you rather I wasn't?'

'No.' The response was unequivocal and sent a thrill through me. 'I just can't see what you're gaining by being here. What's wrong with him?'

I gave the matter some thought. On paper, Sam was the perfect fiancé, showering me with gifts and taking me along for the ride as he moved his way surely but steadily through supporting roles to leading all-star casts in Sunday night dramas. If I ever stopped to calculate how much he must have spent on me over the last four years, it would have come into the tens of the thousands, and that was before the engagement ring was factored into the equation. Mere facts and figures weren't the whole story though. I wondered how I could get across the reality of being with someone like Sam Bovey.

'He can be very demanding,' I began trying to explain. 'He... expects me to be something I'm not. He wants me to be this perfect girlfriend and wife, never a hair out of place, designer clothes and flawless make-up. It's to do with his career, I know, I'm part of the Sam Bovey brand now.'

'And you don't want to be?' Roger smiled as I gave him a withering look. 'Sorry, stupid question.'

'I'm tired of being somebody's daughter or somebody's fiancée. I just want to be me.' The last words came out in a whisper, betraying the deep emotion I felt and had tried to ignore. I knew in the grand scheme of things it was a minor issue and that I was behaving like the spoilt brat I'd always been in danger of becoming. Feelings were feelings though, and Roger had wanted to know what had brought me here this summer, half a day away from the paper-perfect fiancé.

If Roger agreed with any of my private thoughts, he didn't say anything. Instead, he took my left hand in his again. 'I think you're alright as you are.'

It was one of the best compliments I'd ever been paid.


	16. Chapter 16

The daylight hours I spent with Roger were some of the happiest hours of my life, and yet it all ended abruptly as day turned to night. Most evenings, Roger would see me to my door, his hand clasped in mine and sharing a joke right up until we reached my apartment. Then the talk would dwindle as he seemed keen to get away and leave me there. Apart from the two nights that first weekend, each night ended with me getting into my own bed alone.

It shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did. There had been several times over the past year or so when I had wished that Sam would go home more often and leave me to sleep by myself without fear of kicking him accidentally in my sleep. For a time, I'd found I couldn't even be myself in my sleep. Yet now I was desperate to have somebody share those night hours and each night it became harder to detangle myself from his goodnight kiss.

The nightly rejection could have made me doubt exactly why Roger was spending so much of his time with me recently. I could have fallen back on my earlier conviction that there was more to his relationship with Mark than either had admitted to. That is, if it wasn't for that goodnight kiss. Night by night it only became clearer that whatever was stopping Roger coming to my apartment wasn't anything to do with me; he was almost as reluctant to break off from the kiss as I was.

One evening, as he pressed me up against the wall outside my door, I tried once again to tempt him inside.

'Come in,' I murmured into his shoulder, my breath shallow and my body incapable of believing that he would once again detach himself from this moment. We'd spent the evening watching a band in a nearby cafe and we'd barely spent two minutes without holding hands or draping our arms around each other. It had felt as though tonight was finally the night that he'd give in to the feelings that were obviously coursing through his body as much as mine.

With his head buried in my neck, he didn't answer for the longest time, his lips pressing against the delicate skin underneath my hair. I hoped the silence was a good sign and buried my hands in his hair.

Then it came.

'I should get home.' He lifted his head.

'Really?' My breath escaped in one moment, disbelief mingling with exasperation. One look at his face told me that this was his head acting and that if his heart and body had a say in the matter, there wouldn't even need to be a question.

'You've got work tomorrow. You should get to bed.'

'I don't mind,' I insisted, smiling. 'I'm a big girl, I can manage on a few hours sleep.' Behaving in a most un-Catherine-like way, I pressed myself against him again. 'Come on.'

'Cat, really.' His hands tried to leave my waist but I caught them and held them there. 'Cat!' he finally exclaimed as I made an attempt to kiss him again and he pulled free. Having put a significant distance between us, he ran a hand through his hair, his eyes huge and round. Pressing himself against the opposite wall, he spoke in broken sentences. 'I... I should really... You should... I'll see you... goodnight.' Within seconds he had clattered up the stairs and put an end to the evening with a decisive crash of his sliding door.

Leaving me, still pressed against the wall, my heart pounding and feeling most unable to have a good night's sleep.

* * *

><p>Given that the evening had ended so badly, I'd almost expected our routine to change and had prepared myself for the somewhat alien prospect of leaving work by myself. Lydia had stopped commenting on 'your gorgeous guy' and so I was given no clues as to whether he'd arrived or not until the very moment I stepped outside the cafe when we closed at eight o'clock that evening. Then, through his last puff of smoke, I saw him and the memory of how brazenly I'd behaved the previous evening came rushing back to me, lighting my face up with a burning pink glow.<p>

'Hey.' He stubbed the cigarette out and I noticed how he didn't immediately drape his arm around my shoulders or take my hand as usual, choosing to bury his hands in his pockets instead. 'Good day?'

I nodded. Along with the shameful memory of how I'd pressed myself up against him, the tight knot in my stomach had returned, reminding me of just what a disappointment the evening had been. The combination made it hard for me to find any particular words.

For his part, Roger seemed equally as unsure in this situation, although whether that was a result of the previous evening or just a typical Davis mood swing was open to debate. Whatever it was, some of the certainty he'd had over the last week seemed to have gone as he asked, 'Are you doing anything tonight?'

I forgave his completely overlooking the fact that I hadn't spoken to anyone apart from him and Lydia for the past week as I shook my head.

'Do you want to?'

'Like what?' I forced the words out, unwilling to appear as a complete walkover. He'd hurt me last night, something he seemed to have recognised, and so a mindless nod was more than I willing to give him at that moment. Never mind the fact that I couldn't think of a response to my question that wouldn't result in my agreement.

'I thought I could cook something. We could rent a movie if you like.' It was almost possible to hear the unspoken apology and grovelling in his voice. His final words clinched the deal. 'Mark's going out with Stacey. We'd have the place to ourselves.'

I gave him a mindless nod.

Once in Roger and Mark's apartment, I found myself relaxing a little more, resolving that I'd keep control of myself this time. Besides, watching Roger at work in the kitchen was a revelation in itself. I'd been impressed when Mark had cooked Mexican on my first night in New York, but it seemed his roommate had deeply hidden skills.

'How did you do that?' I asked after he'd chopped up a carrot in a matter of seconds. The knife had moved faster than I'd thought possible, and when I saw that all his fingers were still intact it only made my fascination increase.

'What?' He frowned.

'That!' I pointed at the diced vegetable. 'That was... amazing.'

'It's called chopping.' He raised his eyebrows in amusement. 'It's not that incredible. Most people who can cook can do it after a fashion.'

'Oh I can't cook,' I said carelessly, picking up a circle of raw carrot and chewing it.

'This isn't really cooking, I'm only doing a stir-fry.'

'I wouldn't even know how to do that.'

Roger gave me a curious look. 'But you could cook something, couldn't you? Like, I don't know... a boiled egg?'

I pulled a face, remembering my one attempt when the pan had boiled dry and the egg had exploded. Most people didn't believe that was possible but I'd witnessed it with my own eyes and had to scrub the remnants off of the ceiling.

'So, what? Is Sam some chef extraordinaire?' That hint of rivalry slipped back into his voice as he mentioned my fiancé. It was to become something that irritated me beyond belief over the coming months but at that point I still found it vaguely amusing and even flattering. Part of me wished Sam could hear him attempting to stake a claim on me as I was and not trying to change me in anyway. It would certainly have been an education for him.

I shook my head. 'Not really. I mean, he's a bit better than me. We don't tend to cook much though.'

'What do you eat?'

'Ready meals.' I shrugged, a little embarrassed now at my own cluelessness. 'We eat out a lot,' I added in a small voice as Roger stifled a laugh. 'What?'

'Nothing, it's just...' He put a hand over his mouth and tried to rub out the clear smile on his lips. 'It's just...'

'Just what?' I demanded.

The smile spread across his face. 'It's just you really do come from another world, don't you?' He held my gaze for a moment before turning back to the sizzling frying pan. 'I'm just going to finish up here. Go and sit down. Put the film on if you like.'

'But you might miss some...' I replied teasingly, poking my tongue out at his pained expression. He was clearly regretting giving me free rein in the video store as I'd gleefully selected _Ghost_, a film I'd always meant to get around to seeing and never had. He'd valiantly withheld his groans but I knew it wasn't a film he'd have chosen.

Despite that, by the time Patrick Swayze bid Demi Moore a final farewell, Roger's withering comments had dried up and as the end credits rolled, I had to lift my head up off from his shoulder to see if he was even still awake.

'Are you... crying?'

'No.' Hastily, he got to his feet and took our empty plates to the kitchen. I let a smile cross my face as I took the video out of the machine and put it back into its case.

'It's a nice idea, isn't it?' I mused idly as I ran my hand over the healing scars on both of my knees for want of anything better to do.

'What is?'

'That people might come back. It's sort of nice.'

'Is it?' Roger spoke less with doubt than with disinterest, making an ostentatiously loud noise as he washed the dishes up. 'I don't think it would be that pleasant. Being haunted.'

'No?' I joined him in the kitchen, offering my drying-up abilities. 'Even if it was someone you loved?'

'The way I see it is, once they're gone, they're gone.' The crashing of plates continued as Roger's thoughts on the matter rambled on. 'And no amount of wishing for them to come back changes that. Besides, who'd want them watching over you, seeing everything you did? It sounds awful. Anyway, why would you want them there if you couldn't...'

'Hey.' I put a hand on his arm, startled by this outpouring which was so unlike the man I knew. 'I was only saying. Are you okay?' For some reason his face had lost the healthy glow it had had before, the easy-natured smile replaced by a grim line. I had no idea what had happened to cause such a change but I knew I didn't like it.

Now he gazed down at me without speaking. I resisted the urge to fiddle with my hair or check my teeth for any leftover stir-fry. My eyes roved his face, searching for something, some reason for the mysterious pain in his eyes. Maybe if I could find the cause, I could fix it and erase it completely. Maybe I could...

All thoughts were knocked out of me as Roger abruptly pressed his lips against mine, unintentionally recreating our first kiss as his teeth bumped into mine. He brushed my hair back from my face with soapy hands, whilst I stood, tea-towel still in hand, unsure over what I should be doing.

Finally, he broke the kiss and lifted his head. Once again, I looked for some explanation, and when none seemed forthcoming, I ventured, 'What was that for?'

'Does there need to be a reason?' His voice was soft and seemed to be aiming for an off-the-cuff remark, which was rather marred by the glassy look to his eyes.

'No.'

After several seconds more silence, Roger gave an embarrassed smile. 'I've got soap in your hair,' he said, dabbing ineffectually at the suds in my hair.

'It doesn't matter,' I insisted. The kiss had reawakened my earlier breathlessness, making words hard to find and harder to spit out. All my attention was focussed upon his hand as it ran through my hair, making it soapier than ever. I genuinely didn't care. All I wanted at the moment was for this to happen. And so I behaved just as I had the following evening; just as I'd vowed I wouldn't again.

As I pulled his head towards mine, I felt the muscles in his neck tense up and I foresaw yet another rejection. I wasn't sure if I could bear it and so pressed myself against him, hoping against hope that I'd be proved wrong.

I shouldn't have worried.

After a few seconds of resistance, Roger pulled me closer, his hands firmly grasping my waist and his lips moving against mine with a hunger I'd never come across before in anyone. I was reminded of how he held my hand, as if I was all that was keeping him tethered; now it seemed that holding onto me was equally as vital to his current existence. So violent was his sudden change of heart that I found myself pressed against the kitchen worktop, his weight on my legs and torso. All I could manage to do was slip my hands underneath his shirt, at which Roger started as though I'd electrocuted him.

'Your hands are freezing!' he murmured against my mouth.

'Sorry.'

'I'm not complaining.' He punctuated his words with small kisses around my mouth. Then he rested his forehead against mine. 'Cat?'

'Mmmm?'

'Are you... sure?'

I opened my eyes to find his blue ones searching my face for some sign, concern written in every line of his face. 'About what?'

'This.' He ran his hands up and down my arms. If it was supposed to be a deterrent, a chance for me to think things through, it was a complete failure as all it made me think of was how much I wanted those hands pressed against me.

'Certain.' When Roger still hesitated, I took matters into my own hands. In a mixture of kisses and tugs on his shirt, we found our way into his bedroom.

* * *

><p>Lying, staring at Roger's ceiling, with my breath only just returning to normal, a feeling of relief washed over me. I was no cooler now than I had been at any point during the last two weeks; in fact, I was significantly hotter and sweatier. Yet something had changed. As my heart rate slowed down, I found myself feeling ten times calmer than I had in recent months. It was as though all the self-restraint I'd shown over the last few years, listening to what my parents and Sam wanted from me, had dissipated into the New York night. I finally felt free.<p>

And so I turned towards the source of my release, the person who had jerked me out of my poor-little-rich-girl existence.

Only to find he'd already rolled over and turned his back on me. It took me several seconds to discover how that made me feel, as I found my eyes moving over the muscles in his back and the memories of what had already happened that evening flooded my brain with thoughts of an altogether different nature. Only after I'd regained control of myself was I able to assess the situation. At which point, my spirits went crashing down again.

Perhaps I'd been with Sam too long, perhaps this was how people behaved at the beginning of a relationship now. Or at least, perhaps this was how New Yorkers behaved, brushing off their lover only minutes after placing feather-light kisses across their body. Whatever the reasons, it didn't stop my feelings of elation changing immediately to a crushing depression which could only be cured by my turning my back on Roger too.

I felt rather than saw him swing his legs out of bed, and heard him reaching for some clothes. The floorboards creaked as he padded out of the bedroom, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Not to be outdone, I hastily reached for my knickers and any t-shirt I could find on the floor, desperate to regain some sense of dignity in this situation. If Roger could walk away so coolly and calmly, I was determined not to be found in such a vulnerable state when he returned. I briefly considered leaving altogether, making a grand statement by walking out. Then he'd see what it felt like. Even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew it would never happen, that I would never find the courage to pull my clothes back on and saunter carelessly out of the apartment and back to my own lonely bed. A small part of me clung to the moments we'd shared only minutes earlier, and so I slid back underneath the sweat-soaked sheets, and tried to sleep.

Oblivion hadn't overtaken me when the bedroom door swung open again. Light from the living area filtered through my closed eyelids and I fought the urge to open them. My resolve to take Roger's seeming rejection calmly forced me into pretending that I'd fallen asleep in the time he'd been gone. Nothing could be further from the truth, as I felt myself tense up when Roger got back into bed beside me.

He sighed deeply. Then, unexpectedly, he said, gently, 'Cat? Are you awake? Cat?' He left a long pause as he waited for a reply. It was on the tip of my tongue to respond, to turn and face him and recapture the evening. Then he spoke again, and it was one of the best decisions I'd never made. 'I'm sorry. I know, I'm doing it again. I did warn you.'

And so I opened my eyes and spoke. 'You've been smoking.'

The mattress jumped as he reacted to me with surprise. 'I thought you were asleep?'

I turned my head to give him a wry look. 'Which is why you were being nice?' The words left my mouth coldly and struck their target perfectly as he winced in the lamplight. They were deliberately cruel but I didn't take them back.

He tried to sound light-hearted. 'Everybody likes a post-coital cigarette.'

'Aren't you supposed to share them?'

'You don't smoke.' I showed my disdain by turning back to face away from him. 'Oh Cat! I'm only joking!'

'Well don't!' I snapped, rolling over to face him. 'You've just... walked out on me, you've...' Shaking my head, I tried not to give way to the tears which were threatening to spill over. 'I thought this meant something, I thought you... liked me... I thought...' Despite my best efforts the tears came, and I found myself having them wiped away by Roger once again.

'I do like you, it did mean something.' He spoke softly, as if to a scared animal or child, his hands moving gently across my face. 'I didn't mean...'

'You didn't mean what?'

He shook his head, giving an exasperated sigh. 'God, I don't know. I warned you I was a disaster, Cat.'

I sniffed. 'You've never said why though.' Propping myself up on the pillows, I faced him as sternly as I could. 'Go on. What makes you such a disaster?'

'It's... it's been a long time.'

'I've hardly been jumping into bed with somebody new every weekend!'

'But you've been in bed with someone!' He fired the words back like weapons, a fire and anger coming into his eyes. 'This is the first time I've done anything like this since...'

'Since?' I prompted him, determined not to let it lie this time.

'Since Mimi.'

The name reverberated around the room, the magic word which seemed to have been coming between us for the last few weeks. It sounded right, it fit into the silences left by Roger and all of the others ever since I'd known them. That earlier sense of release and of being able to breathe properly for the first time in a long time returned.

'Mimi?' I echoed.

'My girlfriend. My last girlfriend,' he qualified, not quite speaking in the past tense.

'You split up?'

'Not really.' The words seemed uncomfortable in his mouth and he eventually added, 'She sort of... left me.'

'Two years ago,' I breathed, remembering the afternoon in the park, the genuine way he'd looked into my eyes and told me how this was _the happiest I've been in two years_.

'What?'

'Just something you said once.' I shook my head. What I'd said wasn't the point. The point was that something that had happened two years ago still had the power to make Roger's words stick in his throat and send him stalking around the apartment for solo post coital cigarettes. It didn't seem right. And yet it was more comforting than the alternative: that he'd regretted it all as soon as we'd rolled apart and now wished he knew how to get rid of me.

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why Mimi had left him, whether his conviction that he was a complete disaster came from his role in their break-up. Then I remembered that other afternoon, when he'd revealed that _the last time was probably around eighteen months ago_. I'd seen my cousin Anthony screw up enough relationships and jobs as he'd snorted, injected and smoked everything he could. He'd become a nightmare to be around, relying on the next hit to get him through the day and making a fool of himself at party after party. Of course, we'd protected him and behaved as though it was all normal, as though his stints in rehab were nothing more than a weekend's stay at a spa. But it wasn't, it was anything but normal. So I could guess why Mimi had left Roger, disgusted by what he had become before her eyes. Deep inside, I knew I'd do the same thing if it were me.

'Have you... heard from her since?' Two years was a long time but it was clear the memory of this woman lingered, for Mark and Maureen as much as for Roger. Mimi, it seemed, was Roger's Daisy, the woman he couldn't forget. I needed to know if the competition was anything more than in my mind.

He shook his head. 'No. Never.' There was a finality in his words which spoke of the loneliness he'd experienced since she'd gone. Then, as though trying to shake those feelings off, he added, 'And I'm not going to. This isn't about her anyway.'

'Isn't it?'

'No. Cat, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring her up, I didn't...' He smiled wryly at his own words. 'Are you bored with hearing me apologise yet?'

'You are making a habit of it,' I agreed, my face still sticky from where the tears had run down it. 'But no... not bored,' I added.

He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. 'I know I'm a mess. I'm trying not to be. I wouldn't blame you if you walked out too.'

'That's... not going to happen,' I replied before smiling. 'Your apartment's much cooler than mine, for starters.'

He grinned and rested his forehead against mine. 'Nice to know I'm useful for something.'

'You have other uses.' I moved my foot against his leg.

'Really?' He raised his eyebrows.

'Really.' I slipped down the pillows into the bed, pulling him with me. 'Turn the lamp out.'


	17. Chapter 17

**Happy New Year everyone :)**

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><p>The day had to come when our cosy <em>ménage a deux<em> had to come to an end, and I should have been grateful. I was supposed to be meeting new people on this trip, living a life a million miles away from the one I'd left behind. Meals on the sofa in front of the TV and tumbling into bed before midnight were exactly what I'd been doing in England for the last year or more. The truth was, though, that I'd never quite enjoyed them this much.

The strangest thing of all was that the thought of spending an evening with Roger's friends, _my new friends_, felt so very scary. As I blow-dried my hair and applied more make-up than usual, I wondered why. I knew Mark and Collins, I'd met Maureen and Joanne so many times before. It should be an easy relaxing evening. Instead, my stomach was contracting anxiously and it took me three attempts to get a straight line with my eyeliner. Things had changed. I wasn't just Cat anymore. I was Roger's... well, whatever I was, there were reasons for my feeling wound up as I climbed the stairs to his apartment.

'Cat!' Maureen swept me up in an energetic hug as soon as I stepped foot inside the door. 'You look incredible, have you lost weight, I love your lipstick!' She didn't pause for breath, or for me to respond, before dragging me further into the room and to the sofa. 'Roger won't tell us anything, so you can fill us in. What's going on between you two?'

'Maureen!' Joanne, Mark and Roger all exclaimed at once, matching expressions of annoyance and embarrassment on their faces.

'I'm sorry,' Joanne began to apologise.

'Don't apologise on my behalf!'

'Well someone has to!' The lawyer rolled her eyes.

'I was only asking what we all wanted to know,' Maureen persisted, rolling her eyes dramatically at me, as if sharing a private joke. 'And Cat doesn't mind anyway, do you, Cat?' A bright smile was aimed in my direction and I quailed in its full beam.

Despite themselves, both Mark's and Joanne's eyes moved onto me, searching for the answer to the question they hadn't dared ask. This was worse than I'd imagined as I'd painted my toenails and plucked my eyebrows. This was like torture, and Roger was doing nothing to help. A desperate glance in his direction showed that he wasn't going to rescue me, even if his eyes looked sympathetic. His decision had been final and he wasn't saying anything.

Just when the silence was becoming unbearable and I was willing the ground to cave in underneath me, Collins arrived and saved me for the second time in as many weeks. His offering of beer and wine for the evening caused a hasty dispersal from the living area as Maureen made to grab her own bottle of wine, and Roger cracked open a beer. To his credit, he brushed past me on his way and mouthed something indistinct but which seemed intended to be comforting and welcoming. It worked, mostly.

Collins had broken the interrogative mood and the conversation moved onto other things: a case Joanne was involved in ('I shouldn't be telling any of you any of this...') and the 'mind-numbingly idiotic' film Mark was working on for Buzzline. I even chipped in a few stories from work, managing to elicit some laughs from the one about the man who'd ordered three lots of dessert in one sitting. The shared experiences brought the group back together, almost removing the strange atmosphere at the start of the evening; it felt like I was part of a real crowd again, and I enjoyed it. At some point, amidst the fetching of drinks and arrival of pizzas, Roger slipped onto the sofa beside me.

'You look nice.' The words fell like petals against my neck, blocking out the screeched story Maureen was telling which I'd lost the thread of several minutes earlier.

'Thank you.' I felt a chuckle ripple in his chest. On one of our lazy afternoons together he'd remarked on how much he liked the way I spoke, calling it 'Mary Poppins-eqsue'. At the time I'd given him a slap on the arm, defending my sometimes too-formal word choices and almost painfully perfect vowels. Despite his teasing, it was one of the few things I was grateful to my parents for, for insisting upon perfect diction; Roger's approval was simply the icing on the cake.

'Want anything else to drink?'

'No thank you.' I turned my head slightly to look at him. 'Anyone would think you were trying to get me drunk,' I teased softly.

'And if I am?' He murmured into my hair, before pressing his lips against my head. Resting his chin against my shoulder, he pulled me back until I was leaning against him, and wrapped both arms around me, turning his attention back to the rest of the room in time to hear the punchline of Maureen's story.

It was at that moment that I found myself able to breathe again. I wondered when I'd stop finding a simple touch from Roger so empowering and whether it was visible to anyone else. A quick glance around the room brought me eye to eye with Mark. Now he'd been caught, his eyes slid away from mine but not in time to hide the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. My heart jumped in my chest as I considered what he could be smiling at. I hoped it meant something good.

As the evening progressed it descended into a form of organised chaos. No one would later own up to suggesting we play a drinking game, although several of us seemed to remember Collins producing the shot glasses. Whoever it was, we were soon sprawled across the floor and sofa in various states of laughter, as Joanne accepted her dare and performed an impromptu version of Michael Jackson's Thriller.

'And that,' she declared, as she climbed over us to get back to her seat, 'is how... it's done!' She gave Maureen a particularly pointed look, to which her girlfriend responded with fresh cheers and a rather messy kiss.

As the game advanced back towards me, I made a timely escape to the kitchen, claiming to be refreshing my glass of wine but really sneaking a glass of water instead. Roger's words from the other day had lodged fast in my brain and I was determined that this evening wouldn't end with me falling over due to excess alcohol.

'Cheat.' I turned from the sink to find Collins leaning on the worktop and grinning at me. He gestured towards my glass. 'I'm assuming you'll be putting some vodka into that?' Sensing my embarrassment, he added, 'Never mind. I'll keep schtum.'

I smiled. 'Thank you.'

Collins went on. 'So... you and Roger, eh?'

My cheeks burned. 'Yes.' I bit my lip but couldn't stop the smile spreading even further.

He nodded. 'That's great. I'm pleased for you.'

'We're not getting married!' I protested, laughing.

'Not yet.' Collins winked and then joined in my laughter. 'Seriously, though. I think you might be just what he needs.'

Although it made me sound more like a medicine than a girlfriend, I took the compliment and hugged it to me. It kept me buoyed up without the need for further alcohol, something no one but Collins even seemed to register. I sipped my water and laughed as Mark was placed in the awkward position of having to own up that he hadn't lost his virginity until he was twenty-one ('Oh my God!' Maureen screeched. 'But you were with _me_ when you were twenty one! _Fuck_, Mark!'). How this had never emerged before was a mystery to me, but one I didn't ponder too hard as Roger's arm snaked around my shoulder again. Much as I was now enjoying myself, I was already looking forward to it being us two again, alone. I hadn't expected to feel quite so strongly about it, it had been so long since Sam had seemed a valuable companion. I liked it.

It seemed Roger felt the same way. When I slipped out onto the balcony for a few moments of fresh air, I hadn't expected anyone to miss me. Then I felt a pair of hands I was coming to know as well as my own slip around my waist and I leaned back into Roger's familiar hold.

'Fancy meeting you here.' Roger's attempt at mimicking my accent made me giggle all over again, dissolving into convulsions. 'Drunk _again_, Catherine?' he added as he struggled to hold me up, and now sounding far more like Sam or my father than I wanted to think.

'Not at all.' Recovering, I turned to face him. 'And it's Cat.'

'Having a nice time?' I nodded. 'So you're out here because...?'

'I could ask you the same thing.' I raised my eyebrows in a challenge.

'Smoke.' Roger held his packet of cigarettes up and shook them. 'Naturally.' Then he winked. 'And they're also the perfect excuse.'

'For what?'

'This.' He gave me a brief kiss.

'Oh right.' Smiling, I nodded. 'Definitely, the perfect excuse. You know what? I think _you_ might be a bit drunk.'

'Quite possibly,' he agreed good-naturedly. 'I'd forgotten how fun it could be.'

'Being drunk? Weren't you telling me off about that a few days ago?' I teased.

'I didn't mean that.' He pinched my waist gently. 'I meant... all of this.' He gestured vaguely at the party behind him and then pulled me in closer, including me in his general comments. 'It's been a long time.'

I didn't reply, but buried my head further into his shoulder, for a moment wishing there was a way I could get closer to him, find myself entirely wrapped up in him. Because he was so right, I'd forgotten too. I'd forgotten what it felt like to have a stomach aching from laughter and a permanent smile pasted upon my face. I'd forgotten how you could wake up and look forward to the day ahead. And I'd forgotten what it was like to look into someone's eyes and find yourself falling for them every time. Out on the fire escape, I remembered it all.

'Ready to go in?'

I nodded into his shirt, aware we'd been gone for a long time by now. I could have happily stayed as we were for many minutes longer but I knew we should go back inside. If I was trying to impress Roger's friends, abducting him for the evening wasn't going to help.

Once back inside the apartment, Roger moved to get another beer and I drifted back towards the group. The drinking game had been abandoned and they were draped lazily over the sofa and armchairs, arms looped around each other and voices rising and falling as conversations became ever more sleepy. I perched myself uneasily on the arm of the sofa next to Mark.

'You alright?' He spoke directly to me for the first time that evening. Now I allowed myself to think about it, it was the first time we'd spoken since the awful morning when he'd shared his feelings with me. It had been easier to ignore the ongoing tension between us. Unexpected hope rose within me; if he was talking to me, maybe things had changed.

'Yes.' I nodded. 'You?'

'Yeah.' He paused, picking at the label on his beer bottle. Then he continued. 'Cat, about you and Roger...'

'It's okay.'

'Just let me finish.' He turned his attention over my shoulder to where Roger was talking with Maureen by the fridge. Both of them had broad grins on their faces, Roger's more mischievous as he appeared to be teasing her without her even realising. 'I wanted to say... what I said before. I was probably wrong. I haven't seen him look this happy in a long time.' Mark turned his eyes back to me. 'And if you make him that happy... well, it can't be that bad.'

'I _think_ that's good,' I teased, pulling apart his complicated delivery. 'And I _think_ that's a compliment.'

He smiled. 'It was intended to be one. Sorry. And... sorry about the other.'

'So will you stop worrying now?'

'Maybe.' Mark nodded but there was something in his voice and eyes which cut through the very bottom layer of my happiness, burying itself away to be discovered again in the future. 'Maybe.'


	18. Chapter 18

**Super short chapter. I'm mean like that.**

* * *

><p>Three weeks passed. Three beautiful timeless perfect weeks in which everything I'd ever hoped for seemed to be coming true. Weeks filled with sunshine and friendship and evenings filled with laughter. Time spent with a group of people who meant the world to me already, some of whom would fill my life for the next twenty years or more. And always, at the end of every day, slipping into bed where Roger's arms would hold me safe until morning. I could write rhapsodies and melodies about them for eternity.<p>

But you don't want to read about them. You want to read about the times that came afterwards, times like the night Roger walked out of a bar when I innocently suggested he should take part in the open-mic night. The mornings he was gone when I woke up, leaving the same note as ever and no further explanation as to where he had gone. You want to know about the evenings we lay side by side and for just a moment I'd wonder what I was doing there, who it was that I'd let take over my world like this.

You want to know how it all went wrong.


	19. Chapter 19

**Thank you to those of you who have stuck with the story so far. I'm afraid it becomes rather miserable from here on for quite a while (and it's hardly been a barrel of laughs so far!). Please don't hate Roger, either. I still adore him.**

**(PS. This is a T rated story so I don't make too many apologies for content and language)**

* * *

><p>Lying on my back, I stared up at the ceiling of Roger's bedroom. It briefly crossed my mind that similar moments with Sam had been spent wondering whether it was time for a fresh lick of paint. Now, I was concentrating on catching my breath, the bed shuddering from both mine and Roger's gasps. A fine coat of sweat coated my skin and I blew my hair out of my eyes.<p>

As oxygen flooded through my veins again and I began to feel more normal, more like my usual self than I ever felt in these situations with Roger, I turned my head on the pillow to look at where Roger was sitting on the edge of the bed. The early morning sunlight hit his back and showed off the tan on his arms which he had battled so hard not to gain. I smiled to myself; that tan was mostly due to me. There was something satisfying about seeing my own actions stamped on him like that. I reached out a hand towards him.

'Shit.'

The unexpected word rang out in the quiet of the morning and my arm froze, inches away from the small of his back. A long silence followed.

'Roger?'

There was no response for a long time. And then, finally, 'The condom split.'

For several moments his statement didn't hit home properly. Of course, my stomach lurched involuntarily, but then the words came spilling out of my mouth, unheeded and unprepared. 'Oh. Well... that's okay, I mean, I'm on the Pill but there's always the morning after pill and...'

Roger turned his head to look at me and as I gazed into those ever-haunted eyes, I remembered. It sank in suddenly, like a weight in the ocean, and squeezed all the air from my lungs, leaving me winded. All I could force out was a muted, 'Oh,' as my mind scrambled desperately to hold onto something in the face of this.

Turning away, I saw Roger's shoulders slump as he cradled his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. 'Shit. Shit shit shit shit.' His words were spoken more to the floorboards than to anywhere else and despite the panic coursing through my veins, it was his misery that made a sob stick in my throat. Roger would always have the power to do that to me; it was a part of my character I'd learn to despise.

I placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to make some connection with him. It was only in the last few weeks that I'd realised how different life could be when you didn't bottle your feelings up, when you shared them with someone else. I wasn't like Roger, I couldn't hide away like he could. The realisation of what could have happened this evening had momentarily stunned me into silence. Now I wanted to talk, in the vain hope that sharing it would somehow make it less possible.

Roger, though, sprang away from my touch. When he looked at me, it was as though he was gazing at something alien to him, a mixture of fear and something akin to disgust written across his face. It froze me in my tracks, forcing the words back down my throat and the anxiety further down into me. I wanted him to look at me as he had only minutes earlier, full of desire and what I was beginning to think of as love. His hands had almost left scorch marks on my skin, I could still feel their pressure on my hips. And now there was a metre of space in between us that might as well have been a continent. My fear was only outweighed by my misery at that moment.

At length, he spoke, his words noticeably clipped and measured. This was no comforting statement, gently trying to convince me everything would be alright. There was a coldness in his voice as he began to detach himself from the situation. It was a sound I'd become used to. 'The clinic will be open in a few hours. We could get there for when it opens. There's some tablets you can take. It might work.'

It was practical but far from what I wanted to hear. Even so, I nodded. 'Yes. That sounds good.' How anything could be described as 'good' in this situation was beyond me, and somewhere in my mind, the Catherine of Kent and Kensington was gaping, wide-eyed, as the events unfolded in front of me. This was so far removed from anything I'd ever experienced before that the only way I could deal with it was by slipping into character and burying my feelings. It was something I was pretty good at, after all.

Roger nodded in agreement. Then he stood up, as if a business deal had been struck and the conversation was over. 'I'm going to get a coffee and then head out for a bit. Do you want anything?'

Despite his previous coolness, shock coursed through me anew. Dumb, I shook my head, my tongue filling my mouth uncomfortably, not letting a single word escape. There was nothing I could say. What I wanted most in the world was for Roger to stay and I knew already, somehow, that nothing I did would make that happen.

'I'll come back in time to go the clinic. See you later.' With that, he walked out of the door, pulling clothes on as he went, his hair still ruffled from sleep. There was no kiss, no meaningful look which betrayed that he knew how I was feeling. It was as though the ramifications of what had happened this morning had glanced off of him, instead finding a home deep down in my stomach, alone. He was acting as though I'd woken up with a slight cold or a cold sore, and not the awful feeling that at this very moment the Human Immunodeficiency Virus could be infecting every cell in my body.

* * *

><p>Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes. Curled up alone in Roger's bed, time seemed irrelevant and distorted. My mind covered the same ground over and over again, wondering where my life would go from here. Rarely in my life had I done anything which couldn't be reversed or changed if I wanted to; this was something entirely different.<p>

As the early morning gloom turned to the ever-present sunshine, there was movement in the apartment. I heard water running, the pipes clanking angrily at being disturbed, and then the smell of coffee filtered through the door. Proper coffee, not the instant that Roger seemed to be addicted to, never quite having time for a filter and a percolator. He hadn't come back then. And it was with a devastating certainty that I realised he wasn't going to come back. Not to come to the clinic with me, not to see if I was alright. Even at that stage, I knew I was on my own with this. It was something I would never quite be able to forgive Roger for.

'You're up early,' Mark greeted me as I walked out of Roger's bedroom. 'I thought you had the day off?'

I had but I'd forgotten. As ever, we hadn't planned anything special, no grand days out or complicated itineraries to follow. We'd have spent the day drifting from bed to sofa to a coffee shop or a cafe, perhaps taking in the park or the zoo, hands always loosely knotted around each other. It wasn't as though a trip to the clinic was interfering with anything important. And yet despite that, I felt tears prickling my eyes, the contrast between what could have been and what was finding that place in my stomach all over again.

'Fancy a coffee?' Mark continued as he bustled around the kitchen area. 'I'm assuming Roger wants his usual muck. Thank goodness he's got better taste in women than coffee.'

I swallowed hard, determined not to fall apart in front of Mark. 'He's gone out actually.'

'Already? But it's barely _light_!' Mark turned to face me and in that instant it became clear to me that no matter how hard I was trying to hide the morning's events, they were written all over my face. 'Hey, are you okay?'

His concern shook my resolve momentarily. It would be easier to let it all out. Mark would be my second-choice of confidante but he was here, he was interested. If I couldn't have Roger's arms locked around me, perhaps Mark's would do.

Then I put my shoulders back and employed the British stiff upper lip. 'I'm fine. I just need to go to the clinic.' I felt blood rush to my face and my eyes slid away from Mark's as I said, in somewhat of a rush, 'There was an accident this morning and Roger mentioned some medication I could take and...' Running out of things to add, I forced myself to look at Mark again. 'Could you give me directions?'

It was unfair of me to burden Mark with this, I realised, too late, as he stared, open-mouthed, at me. That was the trouble with sharing a problem; it invariably worsened the situation for the other person. Now Mark was trying to process something which had nothing to do with him, something I suspected he had feared might happen all along. As well as terror and anxiety, I added a fresh emotion to the mix: disappointment that I'd let Mark down.

'You mean...?' His sentences became broken and faltering as he tried to get to grips with something I hadn't even started to digest properly. 'Sorry, it's just... you mean, Roger _knows_? And he _went out_?' The incredulity was obvious as he voiced the very thoughts that had been flying through my head all morning.

Now, though, an inbuilt response to any criticism of Roger fought its way to the surface. The instinct was deep and tough. It was another facet of my character I'd grow to dislike. 'He had something to do. Anyway,' I continued, aware of the ridiculously pathetic excuse I'd given on Roger's behalf, 'it's not a problem, not really. I'm a big girl. I can get myself there and back.' How was I forcing a smile and a laugh? 'So, could you give me the directions?'

There was a long pause. Then Mark shook his head. 'No.'

'No?'

'No, I'm not just going to give you directions. God!' Mark thumped down the coffee mug he'd been clutching this whole time, his body animated by anger. 'You're not going on your own, Cat!'

'It's fine,' I insisted, but the wobble in my voice betrayed the lie I was telling.

'No it's not! Is Roger really serious? He'd let you just...' He shook his head.

'I don't mind.'

'I do though! And I'm not letting you go alone.'

'You mean...?'

'I'm coming with you.' Mark was pulling his shoes on as he spoke and hunting for the keys to the apartment. 'Whenever you're ready, we'll go. Together.' He ventured a small smile, a vague attempt to comfort me which Roger hadn't come close to. 'It's going to be okay, Cat. I'm sure of it.'


	20. Chapter 20

Mark's assurances went some way to getting me out of the apartment and walking the short distance to the local clinic. Once there, however, even his attempts at light-hearted and gentle banter dried up in the face of the sad-eyed people surrounding us. We sat uneasily side by side, eyes riveted to the cracked linoleum. I'd expected reality to hit home as soon as we stepped foot inside this place, a world away from the private doctors' surgeries I'd gone to at home, for minor throat infections and the brief fainting spell I had when I was sixteen. Instead, it all only seemed even stranger and more alien than ever. It was that, and not some core of steel, that enabled me to get through the short interview with the world-weary doctor.

'And this happened this morning you say?' Dr. Kerr glanced up briefly from the notes she was writing. Her eyes were lined with a thousand similar stories to mine and so I could almost forgive her lack of empathy or compassion. If nothing else, her business-like manner made it easier on me.

'Yes.'

She scrawled something on the pad in front of her. 'Is there a chance you could have been infected before today?' When I didn't reply she focussed her attention on me for longer. 'Have you ever shared needles, or have you had unprotected sex before?'

'No.' I shook my head hastily. 'It was an accident. The condom split.'

Her only response was to scribble something else down. Then, 'I'm prescribing you something called PEP. Post Exposure Prophylaxis. It's a course of drugs which can stop the virus from taking a hold of you. They have to be taken twice a day, every day for a month.

'A month?' I yelped. Then I added, 'And... that will stop it happening?'

'It may. It's not guaranteed.' Dr. Kerr signed off her signature on the bottom of the pad. 'We don't often prescribe them for this occurrence. But in your case...' She shrugged. 'You seem like a nice girl. It's worth a try.'

The hideous double standards being applied bypassed me at the time as I clutched at the prescription she handed me. That my background and upbringing had any bearing on the kind of medical treatment I deserved was entirely wrong and something I'd one day try to change. For the moment, I had a dozen questions I wanted answering.

Dr. Kerr pre-empted many of them. 'It's a course of very toxic drugs. I assume you're on AZT?' She turned suddenly to Mark.

'Me? Oh, I'm not... I'm just here to... I don't have... I'm just here with...' The babble finally stopped. 'I'm Mark. I'm... just a friend.'

Dr. Kerr didn't betray any thoughts she might have on this odd set-up. 'My apologies. I assume your... _partner_... is on AZT?' she turned back to me and I nodded, remembering the many bottles of tablets and pills Roger had in his bedroom. 'These are the same but a very intensive form. You may experience a number of side effects. Mainly nausea and vomiting, perhaps some headaches or fatigue. You may wish to take some time off work. Have you got someone to help at home?'

Home. A sudden yearning for my bedroom at my parents' house in Kent came over me. It was still plastered in posters from my time at school: George Michael and Simon Le Bon, proof positive that you could like both Wham! and Duran Duran simultaneously. I could practically smell the engrained scents of cheap teenage perfume, could almost feel the thick carpet between my toes. A desire to bolt home swept over me like a wave, so strong I was unable to speak for several moments.

'She'll stay in our apartment.' Mark's voice jerked me out of my reverie. 'If you want to, that is,' he added as an afterthought.

Tears pricked my eyes again. This was all so wrong. If I had to be here, it should be Roger beside me, telling me he'd take care of me, telling me it would all be alright. Instead, Mark was mopping up his roommate's mess again. And yet I had no alternative.

'That would be great.' I nodded and forced a smile. I owed him that much.

* * *

><p>Roger reappeared some hours later. By that time, I'd taken my first dose of the PEP and I was waiting to see what the side effects would be. Mark was pottering around the apartment, fiddling with his various cameras. It was patently obvious that he was only staying for my benefit and on several occasions I'd suggested he should go and actually take the shots he'd been talking about all morning. He stayed, though, resolutely and stubbornly, insisting that he needed to sort some things out in the apartment anyway. Perhaps I should have pushed harder, but I found I was grateful for the company.<p>

When Roger returned, Mark was showing me a film he'd recently finished editing which followed the development of one of Maureen's one-woman shows which had failed to launch her career as she had hoped. Mark's strange relationship with her meant that he'd captured everything about the process, from the extreme highs to a rare vulnerability that I had never seen the other woman show. The film was a brilliant portrayal of Maureen's artistic temperament and I was in the middle of telling Mark so when Roger strolled back into the apartment.

The tension which had been gradually easing immediately heightened again as he walked in. Any smile which Mark had managed to coax out of me vanished and I found myself only reluctantly meeting Roger's eyes.

'Hi.' He sensed the atmosphere and looked between the two of us. 'Are you... okay? Do you want to... do that thing now?' His eyes darted towards Mark, a clear signal that we should keep this just between us.

So it was with a perverted pleasure that I was able to say, 'I've already been. Mark took me.' The words fell on him like bullets and any delight I'd taken in challenging his desire for secrecy was instantly marred by the pain his face caused me. I'd betrayed him and despite the fact he'd done worse to me that very morning, it seemed to be him that was suffering more.

'You've... been?' Roger glanced at where Mark was standing in the background, looking awkward and as if he wished he hadn't been involved in this at all. 'So... is it all... sorted? Are you...?'

'I've got some tablets.'

He nodded. 'Are you okay? Do you want me to do anything, get anything?'

The thing I wanted most in the world was for him to apologise, to pick me up and somehow block out all the fears inside my brain. But I wouldn't beg for it, I'd never ask for some comfort. So I shook my head. 'I'm fine.'

'I might make a coffee. Anyone else?'

'No thanks.' Mark spoke for the first time since Roger had returned home, and in those two words he made his feelings on the situation clear. They were clipped and hostile, firmly placing a barrier between him and his roommate, one which hovered somewhere above my head.

'Cat?'

'I already said I was fine.'

'Oh.' He looked between Mark and me again, before going to the kitchen area, leaving me alone on the sofa, wishing things were different. All these years, I had always been able to forgive the things people did to me. I'd cried for three weeks when I'd first been sent to boarding school at the age of eleven, torn between hating my parents and missing them dreadfully. Yet I'd never taken that anger home with me. There had been a number of occasions when I'd known Sam's late nights had been more than high spirited parties with his friends; the lipstick on his collar had whispered his secrets to me the next morning. And yet I'd all but forgiven him, pushing the hurt aside in favour of an easy life. An easy life was exactly what I needed right now and yet I'd picked this precise moment to dig deep and find my resolve.

The smell of coffee drifted across from the kitchen as Roger stirred the instant granules into the mug of water. It was true that I'd always preferred tea but I could never remember the scent of coffee turning my stomach as it did now. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the metallic taste entering my mouth as he returned to the sofa.

He'd barely sat down next to me before I'd leapt up and run into the bathroom, where I was loudly and violently sick.


	21. Chapter 21

**This is sort of flowing at the moment. I've taken a slight liberty with the use of PEP treatment. It was mainly used in the early 90s for nurses and medical staff who might have been exposed to HIV as part of their work, but it's used more widely these days for those who may come into contact with the virus in other walks of life. **

* * *

><p>Roger's inability to cope with the side effects of my PEP began then. When I emerged almost half an hour later, my knees wobbly and my hair scraped back from my face in sweaty strands, it was Mark who gave me a glass of water, which almost immediately came back up again. It was Mark who checked on me twenty minutes later as I lay huddled up on the bathroom floor. And it was Mark who helped me to bed only hours later when the fatigue Dr. Kerr had warned me about took over my body. Every limb suddenly felt so heavy that all I wanted was to curl up under a duvet and seek oblivion. If I felt I could have kept anything down, I'd have drunk whole litres of whisky or vodka in order to knock myself out. Instead, I found myself experiencing one of the worst nights of my life.<p>

To Roger's credit, after watching me shiver on the sofa for mere minutes, he'd insisted on my having the full use of the bed that evening. 'I'll take the sofa.' Even so, there was a pause, a brief moment when it almost felt as though he expected me to protest.

'Thank you.'

It made no difference in the end. Perhaps having Roger alongside me would have taken my mind off of my churning stomach and throbbing head. At least I might have had someone to share my fears with. Although judging by the way Roger had reacted so far, I'd find no comfort with him beside me. Perhaps it was that which kept me awake longer and which finally sent me to sleep with tears coursing down my cheeks.

I awoke far too soon, jerking into life as I heard the door creak open.

'Sorry.' Mark pulled a face as I blinked at him. 'I didn't mean to wake you up. I was just checking on you. It's probably time to take your next tablet.'

Too quickly, the memories of the previous day crowded into my brain and I felt my stomach lurch again. Fortunately, there was nothing left to bring up and so I slumped back against the pillows listlessly as Mark handed me a glass of water and one of the tablets. 'Thank you. You shouldn't have to do this.'

'Don't worry about it. I'm pretty good at it,' Mark smiled sheepishly and sadly. 'When Roger was first diagnosed he was hopeless at remembering to take his pills.'

I sipped the water gingerly, testing to see if my stomach could handle even a small amount of liquid. It took several attempts before I felt confident enough to swallow the tablet. Finally, I was able to place the glass aside and rest my head down again. 'Thank you. I'm sorry about this.'

'It's not your fault.' Mark sat down on the bed beside me. 'How do you feel?'

I shrugged and shook my head, unwilling to begin contemplating that question. Physically I felt as though I'd been knocked over by several buses, but emotionally I couldn't begin to explain the thoughts racing through my head. Instead, I focussed on something else. 'Where's Roger?'

'He's gone out.'

'Where?'

'He didn't say.'

'Is he alright? What?' I added, as Mark rolled his eyes.

'Cat, you're the one who's in bed sick. Why are you worrying about him?'

I didn't know. It just seemed as though all I'd done since I'd met Roger was worry about him and how he was feeling and what he was thinking and doing. Now I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do; worrying about myself was getting me nowhere. And the truth was that I _was_ worried about him. I was angry with him too, but mostly worried; the look of fear that had crossed his face yesterday morning when he'd looked at me across this very bed hadn't faded from my mind.

'By the way, I've called in sick for you. I wasn't sure when your next shift was but I told Tony you'd be off for a while.'

I'd not given my job a second thought since beginning the course of PEP. The extreme nausea and exhaustion had completely wiped it from my mind. Now it seemed I'd missed out on another experience, calling in sick. I decided that was definitely one I'd have been happy to miss out on all together.

'Thank you.'

'Anyway,' Mark moved on, 'I've got to go out for a bit. There's a meeting I should be at. I've called Collins.'

Frowning, I echoed, 'Collins?'

'Yeah. He'll be over in about twenty minutes. He can let himself in though so don't worry, he's got a key from when he lived here.'

'But... why?' My drug-addled brain took several seconds to realise what should have been obvious to me from the start. 'Is he... coming to keep an _eye_ on me? Mark!'

'You shouldn't be left on your own, not all morning,' he protested, defending his kindly actions. 'And if...' He tailed off, leaving me to fill in the blanks myself. _And if anything happened to you... And if Roger isn't willing to look after you himself_... There were so many possible endings to his sentence. 'I just think there ought to be someone here. And Collins isn't busy anyway.'

Too tired to argue, I nodded. 'Okay. Thank you.' Already I was realising that I'd never be able to repay Mark for what he'd do for me over the next few weeks.

Now he stood up, visibly pink from my gratitude. 'I should get my stuff together. Do you want anything before I go? Any breakfast?'

The mere mention of food re-awoke my nausea and I swallowed hard, hoping to stave it off. 'No thank you.'

'You should eat, Cat. You didn't eat anything yesterday.'

'Yes Mum.' I bit my tongue. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to be...'

'It's okay.' Mark shook his head. 'I'll be back later. Try and get some sleep or something.'

That was easier said than done, and by the time Collins arrived at the apartment, I'd dragged myself out of bed in the hope that I'd feel better once I was upright. I couldn't have been more wrong, and so he found me curled up on the living room floor, clutching my stomach which was churning with a mixture of cramps and hunger. Blinking away tears, I tried to pretend I was fine, something Collins at least had the good grace not to disagree with.

'If I didn't know you were ill, I'd never have guessed,' he declared after helping me onto the sofa. 'You look wonderful.'

I smiled bitterly, knowing it was a lie. I'd potentially never looked worse in my life, with knotted greasy hair and the beginnings of a spot on my chin. My personal appearance wasn't high on my agenda right now though, and thankfully Collins didn't seem to expect me to put on much of a show for him. After giving me a glass of water, he began to tell me about his work and how things had been going at NYU over the last few days. Most of what he shared that day didn't lodge anywhere in my memory, but I was grateful for the distraction from my own misery and embarrassment. With his voice wrapping itself around me like a warm blanket, I found myself falling asleep on the sofa for much of the morning. It was only when the door crashed open again that I woke up.

'Oh. Sorry.' Roger stood, framed in the doorway, that look of helplessness crossing his face again. 'I didn't know...' Whether he was referring to my choice of bed or Collins's presence was unclear.

'Hey.' Collins's ease in the situation was admirable as he raised a hand in greeting to his friend. 'How's things?'

Roger shrugged, not answering the question, his eyes fixed on me. 'What made you come round?'

'Can't I drop in on my friends once in a while?' Collins pretended to be offended and deflected the attention away from the real reason for his visit. 'If you feel like that...'

'No, I didn't mean that.' Roger shook his head. For the first time, he spoke to me. 'How are you?'

'I'm okay.' I forced a watery smile, but couldn't muster up much energy, nor did I see why I should. Seeing Roger in front of me reminded me how hurt I was and no matter how worried I'd been about him earlier, I wasn't going to make it easy for him now.

A silence descended which Collins eventually broke. 'Well, I suppose I better get going, you two don't want me hanging around getting in the way...'

Both Roger and I spoke at once. 'Oh no!' It was surprising how much effort I was able to plough into those two words, protesting against Collins's departure. The only thing which stopped me feeling embarrassed at my eagerness was the pain which seared through me as I realised Roger had been equally as vocal.

That wound was only deepened as Roger added, 'I was just passing through really, I'm on my way back out... in fact I better get going. I'll... see you later.' No amount of protestation would have stopped him from turning around and clattering back down the stairs, even if I had tried. As it was, a lump had risen in my throat and that prickling had returned in my eyes. When I found Collins's eyes turned towards me, I resolutely kept my own fixed on the floor.

'Are you okay?'

'Fine.' I nodded, keeping my response as short as possible.

'Because you know Roger didn't mean...'

'I'm fine,' I repeated, interrupting Collins with more conviction than I really felt. 'I just... I should probably go back to bed for a bit, that's all. I'll... see you later. You... don't have to stay.' I summoned all the strength I had left in me to walk back to the bedroom, where I buried my head in my pillows in the hope that I could block my own thoughts out.


	22. Chapter 22

**A shortish one again. Thank you for all the reviews and hits so far. I'm glad that other people like Cat and my Roger, and I hope I do the other Rent-ers justice too. I like Mark almost as much as Roger, in a different way.**

* * *

><p>The next week passed in a seemingly never-ending cycle of medication, nausea and vomiting. By mid-afternoon, my stomach had usually settled enough for me to venture to eat something plain and dry. It invariably turned out to be a mistake, as the second tablet of the day made me lose most of the contents of my stomach all over again, leaving me more miserable than ever.<p>

Mark tried his best to lift that misery, becoming the perfect friend during those awful days. Nothing was too much for him, and after that first day, he seemed to never leave the apartment, always within call if I needed anything. No matter how often I said thank you or apologised for him having to put up with me as a flatmate, I knew nothing I ever did would match his kindness in those days. The situation cemented our friendship and bound us together in a way that would never happen to me again. Perhaps I was lucky that this had happened.

In the second week of the PEP treatment, my stomach began to settle, very slowly. Mark had bought any number of over the counter remedies for nausea, none of which seemed to touch the ever-constant swirling in my stomach, and so I was grateful when my body began to accept the drugs for what they were: potential lifesavers. The many drugstore bags which littered the apartment were a testament to Mark's care – and to his willingness to part with money on my behalf. It had taken me some time to realise that the treatment I'd received hadn't come free on any national health scheme, and even if I'd eventually be able to claim it back from my insurance company, right now it was Mark who was out of pocket. As soon as I felt able, I'd collected what was left from my last paycheck from my apartment and given it to him.

'Don't be silly.'

'Take it.' I pushed it back into his hand. 'Call it rent or something.'

Mark smiled. 'We don't pay rent on this place.'

'Well, housekeeping then.' I shrugged. 'Please.'

Reluctantly he'd taken it and a very small part of my anxiety lifted. I'd fixed the problem I could, leaving me with just the big ones, things I could do nothing about. Dr. Kerr had requested a check-up with me at the end of the second week and whilst she couldn't confirm anything, she said all the tests and examinations she could make at that stage were good. It would be at least three months before I could be formally tested for HIV and so all I could do in the meantime was continue to take the PEP and hope.

Which left me with one problem. Roger.

I'd hardly seen Roger since the day he'd practically run away from Collins and me. It seemed that everything he'd left behind in the apartment was all stuff he could do without: clothes, his guitar... me. On a few occasions the front door had crashed open in the early hours of the morning and I'd lain awake, wondering if he'd venture into the bedroom. He never did. Instead, I'd lie, listening to him moving around the apartment, his progress only hampered by Mark attempting to have a conversation with him in a hushed voice. The closed door and my own exhaustion meant these exchanges always sounded muffled and confused to me, unable to follow the direction they were going in. I'd catch the odd hissed word, barely contained anger expressed on both sides.

'You could just go and see her.'

'She'll be asleep.'

'She won't mind.' A pause. 'So what are you going to do, Roger, keep running away?' The reply was inaudible, but Mark's response wasn't. 'Everything's always complicated with you!' Then, in an anxious tone, 'Where are you going now?'

'I don't know.'

'Just stay for the night, come on, Roger. Roger!' The lasting silence afterwards was testament to how successfully the conversation had ended.

Some basic instinct stopped me from ever asking after these witching hour exchanges. In fact, it was simpler not to talk about Roger at all, blocking every memory I had of him and our time together from my mind. Strangely, that seemed to leave me with virtually nothing to talk about at all; my life in England seemed further away than the simple geographical distance, belonging to another life and another person entirely. As the nausea lifted and I was able to spend some of the day doing something more constructive than lying on the sofa in a haze, a part of me began to look towards the future. Whatever that entailed. It was the first time I'd ever experienced the sense that my life might have an end to it, that there was a time limit on everything I wanted to do. Even on the evenings when I'd lain awake next to Sam, watching the hands chase each other around the clock and feeling as though I was trapped in a world I hated, even then I had always had the feeling that things could be put off, that there would be time to do all those things in the future. There was no need to panic. Now, my future suddenly seemed much shorter than I'd ever expected. Even if these drugs worked and I could expect to live a normal lifespan, that still only gave me fifty or sixty more years realistically. When I thought of what I wanted to pack into those years, it was like a fresh pain. It was time to start making plans.

Mark seemed as content as I was to leave the Roger issue alone. It was as though the third member of our odd trio had never existed, had never meant so much to both of us. Perhaps if we didn't mention him, the gaping absence in the apartment wouldn't be so obvious, and nor would the way we'd both jump instinctively as the front door opened.

If it wasn't for Collins, the R-word wouldn't have been brought up at all. He'd call in every couple of days, with something tempting for me to eat and some amusing stories. Eventually, though, he'd look between Mark and me, and say, 'So how's Roger?'

No matter how sociable I'd been feeling before then, I'd retreat into myself, protecting myself from the words. Which left Mark to deal with the problem.

'He's alright, I think.'

Collins nodded. 'I saw him the other day, actually. Not to talk to, just... saw him.' There was a pause, and despite myself I couldn't help holding my breath, wondering what revelation was to come. 'He was with some friends. Old friends.'

A pointed look at Mark told him more than it told me. His reaction was equally as unfathomable; he nodded and said, 'Yeah. I thought so.' Then he turned back to his camera and the conversation seemed closed. Collins left soon afterwards, and my pride wouldn't let me ask Mark again. It didn't matter. I found out for myself soon enough anyway.


	23. Chapter 23

It was the third week of my PEP treatment and the nausea and fatigue had subsided enough for me to actually try to read something. My unhealthily vast collection of books in my apartment gave me any number of choices and yet I fell back on an old favourite, _Tess of the d'Urbervilles_. Admittedly it wasn't the most uplifting book I could have chosen, but I could at least compare my life to the tragic heroine's and find mine came out on top. That was comforting in a way.

Late afternoon found me lounging on the sofa in Mark and Roger's apartment. I intended to go back to work in the next couple of days, if my job still existed. Tony had been more than generous in allowing me this time off, albeit unpaid, but I knew that if any more time elapsed, he'd look for somebody else. I hoped he wouldn't as that job was one of the very few ways I felt I'd beaten Tess Durbeyfield, and I still had a long way to go until I'd repaid Mark to a level I'd be satisfied with.

Despite my intentions, the intense heat of the afternoon and the lasting side effects of the drugs meant that I was spending more time fighting sleep than actually concentrating on the book in my hand. I wasn't quite sure how I'd be able to go back to work when I was still so dozy, but pushed that aside for another day. I forced my eyelids open and tried to carry on reading.

The front door crashed open. I jumped, gave a small yelp and dropped the book on the floor with an almost equally as loud clatter. And that was all before I realised it was Roger.

He'd lost weight and his clothes looked like they'd been slept in. His hair was greasier than mine and hung in clumps around his face. But it was his eyes which startled me the most in those first moments of silence between us. They'd always been so expressive and piercing. Now they were dull and seemed to look through me, as though I wasn't there, as though they were looking for something else altogether. The state he was in almost eradicated my own self-consciousness about my limp hair and dark shadows under my eyes. Almost but not quite.

'Hello,' I said eventually, as it became clear that Roger wasn't going to start a conversation.

'Hey.' He nodded at me but once again his eyes slid away, unable or unwilling to focus on me. He'd stopped just inside the doorway, clearly unsure whether he was welcome or not.

Sat on the edge of the sofa, I wished he'd say something. Anything. Seconds passed and I realised I'd have to speak if I wanted this to continue. The speed with which the words came to my lips after that realisation scared me, proving how very much I wanted to lengthen this conversation. 'How are you?'

'Yeah, good, you?' Roger's response was as quick as my question had been, three equally short words. Yet I suspected his reaction was for a very different reason from mine. It seemed more likely that he wanted to curtail this conversation as soon as possible. What's more, the question he'd asked was so insensitive when I though it over, so completely at odds with the situation.

Yet my answer was as pedestrian as they came. 'Fine thank you.' And then one of those inevitable pauses. If I dared to think back over how we'd filled those silences in the past, how it had been only weeks earlier, I knew my calm exterior would crumble. So I blocked that out, and spoke again, saying, 'Have you come to collect something?' just as Roger said, 'I was just dropping by, I'll get out of your way.'

'You don't have to,' I said hastily. 'It's only me here, Mark's out, and... we could... talk.' The words no man really wanted to hear; it was no surprise to me that he took another step backwards towards the door. 'Or not,' I added. 'We could just...' I shrugged, no idea how to finish that sentence.

'I should get going.'

'Roger, please, stay.' I clumsily got to my feet and caught his arm, just as he was protesting. Everything was a mass of confusion for a few moments, as he tried to shake me off his arm and I hung on desperately, looking up into his face.

Then, suddenly, I knew. It was like I'd had the scales ripped back from my eyes, like a bright light had suddenly shone down upon us in a play and it was all too plain and clear what was happening here. The dishevelled clothing, the weight loss, the eyes. I'd been so blind.

'Cat, don't!' Something of Roger, _my_ Roger came through as I roughly pushed the sleeves on his shirt back, mirroring what he'd done at Maureen's party all that time ago. I hadn't thought about that since, only realising now what he'd been looking for as I stared down at the marks in the crook of his elbows. I'd seen the faint marks before, memories of his previous life, but these were fresh, surrounded by plum-coloured bruising. The puncture wounds showed clearly the layout of the veins underneath that delicate skin.

I lifted my eyes to his reluctantly, hoping to see something there, an apology, an explanation, something. Instead, all I saw was fear, the eyes of a terrified animal, and he pulled away from me, turning to run down the stairs. Running away again.

'Roger!' I found my voice finally as I stumbled after him, my legs wobbling from shock and the sudden move to activity. His footsteps rang out below me, moving faster than I could hope to, and yet I kept going after him. 'Roger, please, wait!' The concrete was cool underneath my bare feet as I hammered down the stairs as fast as I could, willing him to listen and stop. Willing things to be different.

I pushed myself harder, hoping to catch up with him. As I reached the last flight of stairs, the door to the building swung closed again behind him. Half-blind with tears, I forced myself down the stairs and pushed through the door. 'Roger!' It was more of a wail than a shout, filled with hope that the rapidly disappearing figure would turn around. The summer sunshine beat down upon me as I half-fell out into the street, the tears coursing down my face by now, and three weeks of misery closing around my ribcage in aching, choking sobs. 'Roger!'

'Cat?' I turned vaguely to see Collins on the other side of the road. He increased his pace towards me. 'Cat, what's wrong? What's happened?'

Unable to speak, I gestured towards where Roger had almost vanished from view, before clapping my hand over my mouth to try and contain the animal-like cries coming from deep down within me.

Collins must have regretted planning a visit today, as he found himself suddenly supporting my whole weight as my knees gave way beneath me. The memory of how Roger had had to do similar not so very long ago, as I'd stumbled after a very different kind of encounter, only served to increase my misery. I'd have fallen to the ground outside the building, amongst the cigarette butts and chewing gum, if it wasn't for Collins's strong arms lifting me up above them, cradling me into his body, murmuring words of comfort which didn't really register but went some way to stifling my smothering sobs. Lost in my own despair, it only hit me later that he'd carried me up the six flights back to Mark and Roger's apartment without so much as a grumble or groan.

More than twenty minutes passed before I seemed even halfway in control of my own lungs again. Collins had busied himself in the meantime, quietly making us both a cup of coffee which he placed on the table in front of me. I couldn't remember a time when I'd given into misery in such a dramatic fashion and as my breathing slowed down, some space was made in my brain for embarrassment and shame. People from my world didn't have episodes like this, let alone in front of anyone else.

As soon as I could, I managed to squeak out, 'Sorry.'

'Don't worry about it.' As if my words had given him permission to come closer, Collins left the kitchen and sat down next to me on the sofa. 'How are you feeling?'

I had no idea where to start answering that question and so I fell back on the tried and tested shrug.

'Do you want to talk about it?' As I struggled against the tears which welled up in my eyes and shook my head, Collins put a comforting hand on my knee. 'Hey, okay. We don't have to. But... do you think you should?' I breathed out and gave a non-committal nod. 'Okay. So... what's happened? What's Roger done?'

'He's...' I had no idea how to begin explaining. Perhaps this was normal life here. It certainly shouldn't have come as the shock it had given what I knew about Roger's past. I'd probably overreacted again. 'It... The...' My inability to form words was only hampered further by the return of the heaving sobs in my throat. I sighed and finally managed to get out, 'Drugs.'

Collins nodded slowly. 'Yeah, I figured.

'You... knew?' Of course he'd known. That was what those pointed looks between him and Mark had been about, the talk of _old friends_. They'd realised long ago that Roger's absence from the apartment could be caused by one thing only. A fresh hurt was added to my store of pain. 'You didn't say!'

'We didn't think it would help you,' he replied, and I knew he was right. The discovery had only reduced me to my basest form, crying and wailing in the street without any shoes on. If my friends in England could see me now they'd be disgusted by what I'd been made into.

Still, my stubborn side, the one which had been working overtime since I'd been taking PEP, found some energy. 'I deserved to know.'

Collins nodded again but didn't speak. There was no apology, he saw no need for one, and I knew deep down that I wasn't owed one. I didn't own Roger; knowing what he'd been doing for the past few weeks wouldn't have made any positive difference to my life. Mark and Collins had simply acted as they always had, closing ranks around their friend, hoping that he'd soon come home.

For some time we sat side by side, not speaking but not deliberately avoiding each other. Collins finished his coffee and poured himself another one, whilst my own cup sat untouched on the table. I didn't know if Collins thought the conversation was over or was just waiting for me to speak again. Eventually I did, voicing the suspicion that had been nagging me from the moment I saw the marks on Roger's arm.

'It's my fault, isn't it?'

'What?'

'It is,' I continued in a rush. 'If I hadn't made such a fuss, if I hadn't had to take this stupid medication, if I'd...'

'Cat, stop.' Collins spoke more authoritatively than I'd ever heard him speak before. 'Just... stop. How is any of this your fault? Did you deliberately try and get HIV?' I shook my head. 'Did you make him take the drugs?' Again, I replied in the negative. 'This isn't your fault, honey.'

I remained unconvinced. It seemed too much of a coincidence for Roger to have fallen back on his old habit within days of such a major event happening in both our lives. I didn't know much about addiction, but I'd watched my cousin Antony over the years. If he ever managed to stay away from the toxins for longer than a month, he was always sent spiralling back into addiction whenever something in his life went less than perfectly. And it partly made sense to me; no matter what good intentions I had, I always found myself curling up with a chocolate bar when something upset me. This was just an extreme form of comfort eating.

'How did you find out?'

I clutched my own elbows as the memory came back to me. 'I saw the marks. This is because of me.'

'Stop saying that. Roger's... Roger's complicated.' Collins shook his head. 'It's not the first time this has happened. After Mimi...'

Something in my brain clicked into place and I interrupted him. '_After _Mimi? I thought... I thought he was using _before_?' It was what I'd believed had driven the two of them apart because I couldn't believe that anyone would walk out on Roger, not the way he could be when he was clean.

'Well he was, sort of. But I don't think any of us blamed him for it, certainly not me. When Angel died I could have been tempted.'

'But Angel _died_,' I put in again. 'Mimi...' My sentence tailed off as I took in Collins's face, the second realisation of the day. 'Oh my God. She...'

'Mimi died. About two years ago. She had AIDS.'

'He said she left.'

Collins gave a small sad smile. 'That's Roger for you. When Mimi died he fell apart. I'd never seen him like that before. Mimi seemed to have been all that had been holding him together for so long and then...' He shrugged. 'It's just his way of coping, Cat.'

'Why did he stop?' If I could find the secret weapon, the magic words that would bring him back home then I could fix all of this. There had to be some reason why he'd leave that poison behind.

But Collins simply shrugged. 'I don't know. I don't even know if Roger knows. Maybe he'd just had enough.'

'Until now.'

'Hey.' Collins touched my knee again. 'He's been happier in the last few weeks than I can remember seeing him since before Mimi died. It's not your fault.'

'So why does it feel like it?' I asked in a small voice.

'Because you care about him. We all do. It took Mark and me years to realise that nothing we did made any difference with Roger. His addiction was his choice, no one else's. And he will be alright, Cat, I know that.'

'He'd be better off if he hadn't met me.'

'I don't believe that.'

'Really?' I sniffed and gave him a sceptical look.

'Really. Look,' Collins rubbed my knee comfortingly. 'You and Roger aren't over. Not really. I think maybe it's a case of right people, wrong time.'

'You mean I should have come here next winter or something?' I sounded as dubious as I felt.

'Maybe. You're good together, Cat, even though you don't think so. Like I said before, I think you're just what Roger needs. Maybe just not now.'

I sniffed again, taking in what Collins was saying and trying to believe it. 'So what do I do now?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know, honey. That's something you'll have to think about.'


	24. Chapter 24

I did nothing else but think about it as the afternoon turned to evening. Collins left after an hour or so, planting a kiss on my forehead and forcing a smile from me. Once he'd gone that smile fell away as I sat for hour after hour on my own, the shadows lengthening across the room without me moving from the sofa.

At length, Mark returned home. 'Hey, why are you sitting the dark?' He flicked the lights on. 'Have you taken your PEP?'

'No.' It had slipped my mind and I felt like a child as Mark rolled his eyes and headed for the kitchen to fetch the tablets for me. It was only when he returned to the sofa and really looked at me that he said, 'What's happened?'

The hours had helped me to regain control of my voice and so I was able to say, almost without a catch to my words, 'Roger's using again.' Then I added, 'You already knew.'

Mark sank down beside me on the sofa. It was the action of a man exhausted by the things he'd experienced in the world. I could partially identify with that. 'I guessed. I didn't _know_. What makes you think...?'

'I saw the marks on his arm.' Despite it being the second telling, the memory of those wounds still had the power to hurt me deep down. Somehow knowing that Roger could inflict such damage upon himself was worse than considering the damage he could cause other people. To hate himself that much... 'He was acting strangely too.'

'Yeah. He's been pretty strung out whenever I've seen him.'

I glanced at Mark. 'I'm sorry.'

'What for?' He seemed genuinely baffled.

'For this. All of it. You said this would happen.'

'Did I?'

'You said you were worried about him. About _us_.' Mark's earlier words came back to me surprisingly easily, proving they'd been lodged somewhere, just waiting for an occasion like this. Perhaps I'd expected this to happen.

'I said I knew Roger would fuck up sooner or later,' Mark corrected me, only showing that he remembered that conversation equally as clearly as I did. 'But I don't see how that means you have to apologise. This isn't your fault.'

I smiled weakly. 'That's what Collins said.'

'Collins knows his shit.' The grin that accompanied the statement disappeared as he folded his arms, tucking his hands away awkwardly before speaking again. 'So I take it you're leaving?'

'How do you know that?' It was a decision I'd only come to myself in the last hour. I'd fought against it over and over again, trying to find an alternative solution, a way I could stay and somehow help to put Roger together again; such a job seemed far too much for one person, even someone as experienced in the matter as Mark. Time and again, though, my mind flew away, thinking of a cool English autumn. August was fast coming to a close. Maybe it was time to move on.

'It's what people tend to do.' Mark shrugged.

'I'm sorry.'

'You don't need to be.' Mark gave me a comforting smile. 'I don't blame you, Cat. If I was in your place I'd probably do the same.'

'It's not that I don't...' The words ran out on me. There only seemed one way to finish that sentence and it was the one word Roger and I had never said. In the circumstances it seemed entirely wrong to say it for the very first time.

Mark saved me the trouble. 'I know. And he knows. And he...'

'Don't.' I stopped him before he could finish, not wanting to hear it.

Mark obliged. 'So... when are you going?'

Shrugging, I admitted I had no idea. 'I need to phone my parents, I suppose. I'll need to borrow some money to buy a ticket. Mine was one-way.' Such a bold statement seemed ridiculous now, the actions of a stroppy child who wanted to create a stir. 'I suppose as soon as possible.'

'If you need help with money...'

'Mark, no.' I shook my head firmly. 'You've done... more than enough. Honestly. These last few weeks... you've been...'

'A friend. I've just been a friend. Nothing special.' The tips of his ears turned pink. 'It's nothing anyone else wouldn't do.'

'It's not the kind of thing my ordinary friends would do.' Against my will, tears pricked my eyes. 'You're one of the best friends I've ever had.'

A smile crept across Mark's face. 'Yeah, well... you're not so bad yourself.' He sighed as he looked across at me. 'I wish you didn't have to leave. I could kill Roger for this.'

'He's doing a pretty good job of that himself,' I remarked ruefully.

'He'll be okay, you know, Cat. Roger. He always is.'

I did the best I could to believe him. Roger had, after all, already survived two rounds of withdrawal. He'd lived for longer than most people would expect with a serious health condition, despite his fondness for tobacco and, it seemed, harder drugs. There was no reason to suggest he wouldn't beat the addiction this time as well. But to believe he'd be okay... Nothing seemed less likely to me. _Okay_ meant he'd be fine, alright, good, happy. All things that I just couldn't picture Roger being in the near future.

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><p>Things moved faster than I could have imagined. My plea to my parents resulted in my father immediately booking a ticket from John F Kennedy airport to Heathrow which left later that night. I must have sounded particularly pathetic and apologetic as he even had me upgraded to first class. It was the closest he would ever come to forgiving me for running away and ruining his chances at the perfect union between his family and a genuine English lord.<p>

After the phone call, all that I had left to do was to pack up my things. The difference between that evening and the evening I had unpacked everything was vast. Back then, the apartment had spoken of a thousand possibilities, showing me what my life could be if I only wanted it to be. The weeks and months had stretched out ahead of me, with all the time in the world to discover who I was and who I could be. And now it was all over, the hopes and dreams packed away amongst sweat-stained t-shirts and bottles of tablets.

'You're right you know.' Mark's words made me glance up from where I was forcing things into my bag haphazardly. He gestured at the numerous fans around the apartment. 'Our apartment is much cooler. I should get Benny to fix the windows before...' He tailed off.

'Before the next person moves in,' I finished for him, with a weak smile. 'It's alright, Mark. I know you're already thinking about replacing me.'

'No! I'm not, I'm... Oh. You're joking.' He looked down at the floor sheepishly.

'It wasn't a very funny one.' I finally forced the zip home on my bag. 'There, I'm all packed.' My words rang out in the apartment, echoing and only going to emphasise how this had never been my home. Yet another empty building I'd failed to make my mark on. Thankfully, my spirits were already at an all-time low and so I couldn't be taken any lower with those realisations.

'What time's the flight?'

'Ten thirty-five.' I glanced at my watch, as though I was afraid I'd be late. The sun hadn't even set yet. 'I'll get over to the airport early.'

'I could come with you.'

'No.' I shook my head. 'I'd rather do it by myself. Sorry.'

'Hey, it's up to you. Whatever you want.'

I nodded. 'Could you tell Benny I'll be in touch?'

'Benny?'

'About the rent. This last month's rent.'

'Oh Cat, he won't care!'

'But I do.' There was more resolve in my voice than I could remember hearing for a long time. Perhaps ever. 'Once I get back to England, I'll get some money and I'll send it onto him.' It was another way of closing the door on this chapter of my life. 'I want to.'

'So we'll hear from you again then? If you're writing to Benny.'

I didn't know and shrugged.

'Cat, at least give me an address, somewhere to get hold of you if...' He tailed off and once again I wondered how that sentence could possibly finish. 'I won't give it to Roger.'

'I'm not frightened of him,' I said stubbornly, stalling for time. 'I'm not... scared of him knowing where I am, it's not like...'

'No, I know. I just...' Mark raised his eyebrows. 'Please?'

And so, a little reluctantly, I wrote down my parents' address in Kent.


	25. Chapter 25

**I hope people are still enjoying this. The Renters disappear for a couple of chapters now but will reappear soon.**

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><p>'Catherine! You look <em>amazing<em>! You've lost so much _weight_!' Olivia, one of the vague boarding school acquaintances I'd somehow kept in touch with over the years, greeted me. It was strange but I'd never noticed how much Maureen reminded me of her, with her over-exaggerated enthusiasm and gushing words. 'Is that tan _real_?'

I knew I looked good. The late September sun was keeping my hard-won tan at almost its optimum strength and my newly-refreshed hair was back to its golden shining best. Even now, almost three weeks after my PEP treatment had finished, my appetite had decreased so much that I was easily weighing in at seven pounds less than I'd ever been before in my adult life. Everything about my figure seemed to have suddenly fallen into place.

'So.'

I looked up from the coffee which had appeared as if by magic in front of me. Such levels of service, once a part of my everyday life, now seemed strange and wonderful. I nodded my thanks to the waiter who had known my order before I did, and then frowned at Olivia. 'So?'

'So what's been going on?' Olivia rolled her perfectly made-up eyes. 'Come on, we've all be _dying_ to know! You just... disappeared! It was like one of those films, you know, when someone gets kidnapped or something.'

'You knew I was going to New York.'

'But not like this! Catherine, you totally _vanished_! Harriet and Robert were over there for the summer too and they said they never saw you, never even heard you were there!' Olivia shook her head. 'What happened?'

It was the one question which I had felt lurking around the edges of every conversation I'd had since I'd returned to England just over a month ago. My parents had done well to avoid it, and even James and Amelia hadn't alluded to my summer madness apart from a few references to 'whilst you were away'. To all intents and purposes it had been a normal extended holiday, only one which resulted in bringing me back looking thinner and more tired than anyone would have expected.

Briefly, I flirted with the idea of explaining it all to Olivia, revealing the truth about Alphabet City and working as a waitress, having a sort-of-boyfriend with a heroin addiction and an incurable illness, and having to take drugs myself to help ward off the same. Several times during September I'd been tempted to drop those bombshells into conversation, perversely curious to see how my parents would react. Every time I'd manage to quash the devilish voice inside of me, and so I did again this time. They weren't the kind of memories to be shared so lightly.

'I just wanted to get away for a while. On my own.' I sipped my coffee as casually as I could.

'And then?'

'And then I got bored.' I shrugged. 'It was time to come home again.'

It should have been obvious to a real friend that there was more to it than a simple case of wanderlust and ennui. In my world, people didn't jet off to other countries and drop off the radar entirely. There'd be postcards and phone calls and big homecoming get-togethers. This was the first time I'd socialised since I'd been back in the country. Olivia should have seen straight through my nonchalance.

To give her some credit, she did persist in the topic of conversation, even if she didn't interrogate my answers. She had more about her than some of the people I knew in England. 'Your parents were really concerned, you know, Catherine. My mother said yours looked like she'd aged several years at their anniversary party.' The usual catty comments I'd managed to avoid for most of the summer seemed to have survived. 'Is it true your father sold your flat?'

'He's rented it out.' And that was enough to show me his extreme displeasure in how I'd behaved this year. My father thought in things, things that could be valued in pounds and pence. The return flight home had been his way of forgiving me, but removing the use of my flat, if only for the next six months, was the price I'd had to pay for that. It seemed a reasonable forfeit to pay. 'I've just been over there to pick some things up before the new people move in.' I'd expected to feel more when I set foot in the flat, some sense of loss and sadness that someone else would be using the power shower and sleeping in my bed. Instead, I'd been able to close the door behind me without a single regret.

Of course, to Olivia, such steps as my father had taken were close to the end of the world. 'Where are you _staying_?' Her mouth fell agape before she added in a stage whisper. 'Oh my God, are you staying with _Sam_?'

'No.' The sooner that rumour was quashed the better. Sam was one topic that my family hadn't been afraid to raise, albeit tentatively. Reminders that he'd phoned or called around or that somebody they knew had seen him at a restaurant last Thursday came thick and fast, along with suggestions that maybe I could return the favours. It was a topic I was completely unwilling to broach however, and so I moved the conversation on. 'I'm staying with my parents.'

'In _Kent?_' I may as well have said Bosnia judging by Olivia's reaction. 'But... what will you _do_ down there?'

It was true that Kent didn't have much of a social scene, at least not one that Olivia or I would be involved in. My parents' house was tucked away in a particularly quiet corner of the county, surrounded by leafy countryside and a lot of cows. Apart from a few horse riders and the postman, it was easy to go for days without seeing anybody. For the past month, it had been just what I wanted, and I couldn't see that changing anytime soon, no matter what my parents' feelings on the matter were.

'Nothing much, I suppose.' Nothing Olivia would understand. She would never think of spending her days reading or going for walks. The family Labradors hadn't had so much exercise in a long time – they were almost looking trim again. I'd even half-heartedly picked up a paintbrush for the first time in over three years. It was true that no paint had been on the end of it, and after five minutes of playing with the bristles I'd abandoned it again, but it had been something. With all of that, I hadn't had time to miss my old lives, either of them.

'But you're coming out tonight?' Olivia nodded eagerly. 'It's Diane's birthday and she's booked out this amazing bar...'

'I can't make tonight.' I glanced at my watch. 'My brother's picking me up soon. Sorry.'

After that, we made polite conversation, as I asked after her sister who had just graduated from Oxford, but there seemed little left to add. If I wasn't attending Diane's birthday or Petra's hen night or Christina and Matthew's engagement party, we had nothing in common. It was something that was happening increasingly often in The Life of Catherine Carter Part Three.


	26. Chapter 26

It was a sunny if mild autumn in England that year and the fine weather afforded me plenty of opportunities to leave the house behind. Walking without a purpose somehow settled me and after the weeks of stifling heat, a British autumn was a welcome relief. I knew that the old Catherine would never have done this, but then, I mused, neither would the person I'd been in New York. My love for the Big Apple, which had been increasing day by day, seemed to have turned into something else at the very moment Roger had walked away from me. Only now I was outside, surrounded only by miles and miles of countryside, was I aware of the intense pressure I'd unconsciously been under for the past few months. It was as though I was just learning how to breathe again.

If my parents thought my behaviour since returning to England was odd, neither of them really voiced it in those first few weeks. My father was busy at work, proving that finances and the global markets waited for no man, and my mother maintained the same level of social engagements she always had. Those invitations were always extended to include me but after a few attempts, she stopped even asking. My absence that summer had wrought a change I'd thought impossible: I'd been allowed to grow up. Gone were the times when my parents felt they had any right to control what I did with my time. If I wanted to spend my days in the woods with the dogs and my evenings in bed with a book, they were not going to do a single thing to stop me or persuade me otherwise. It was exactly the kind of personal autonomy I'd been craving for the past few years.

It didn't seem to matter that making decisions for myself was the last thing I wanted to do anymore. All the choices I'd made for myself recently seemed to have been the wrong ones, ending in nothing but disaster and misery. I wanted orders, I wanted structure. I wanted somebody to take me by the hand and put me back on the path I'd followed since I'd been born, setting me straight in the world I knew again. My meeting with Olivia had only proven that I'd wandered far from the gilded streets she and my previous friends glided down and I had no way of working out how to rejoin them. With each invitation I rejected, I just seemed to get further away from the life I understood. I'd felt alone for most of my life, but now I knew how lonely felt.

My walks with the dogs were a small highlight in an otherwise fairly dismal existence that autumn. Labradors had been a family favourite since we'd been children and Chas and Dave were the newest pair. Both only five years old, they would merrily trot along the many paths through the local woods, their black coats gleaming in the dappled sunlight. Chas, the bulkier of the two, tended to stick to the safe routes through the woods, nose to the ground, tail wagging. Dave, on the other hand, would disappear for minutes at a time, following the trail of whatever animal he'd imagined he might find in the woods. The crashing sound of a seventy-pound Labrador warned any rabbits and squirrels away, and he'd return with his tail hanging at half-mast, before plunging away again moments later, fresh hope written on his grinning face. As my only companions on these walks, they certainly provided entertainment, even managing to drag my thoughts away from introspection for short periods of time.

Always, though, I would find myself turning back to the events of the summer. With each day that passed, the events of that small corner of New York City seemed less real and more like a dream. So little had changed around me in England that it was as though I'd simply been to sleep for a month, waking to find nobody else affected by what had happened. With nobody to share the experience with, it was almost impossible to believe that anything had happened at all.

And then something would happen and it would hit me all over. I'd hear a song on the radio or see an advert on the television and it would, somehow, plunge me back into that top floor apartment all over again. Such tiny things were like a punch to my stomach and I'd find myself suddenly gasping for breath all over again, wishing that it had all been a dream, a nightmare even, and that simply opening my eyes would make it all go away. They would come out of nowhere and I'd be reminded that leaving New York hadn't been enough. It would never be enough.

Some days would bring more pertinent reminders than others. By the beginning of October, I had already had my first test to see whether the PEP treatment had worked. Whilst it had come back negative, I knew that I would need testing again twice within the next six months. It was a small comfort, though, and all I could do in the meantime was hope for the best and try to put it to the back of my mind.

Mark's letters were less easy to forget about. September had brought not one, but two letters clattering through my letterbox. They were unassuming, only distinguishable from the rest of the post due to the stamps and the airmail sticker. Nothing suggested they were anything other than someone enquiring after a friend. And yet I dropped them both into the bottom drawer next to my bed, unopened. He was one of the few people who knew about this summer, who would be able to relate to some of what I was feeling now. Somehow, that mere fact meant that I didn't want to even touch the letters more than necessary. If I was beginning to realise that it wasn't an awful dream, I wasn't quite ready to face the reality of what I'd left behind.

And so each day followed a similar pattern that autumn as I existed in a strange state of limbo. My trip to America had only left me more unsure than ever who I was and who I wanted to be. Spending time by myself in the countryside didn't seem to be the solution to my problem but I was at a loss as to what was. More than anything, I wanted someone to make the last few months go away.

But that was surely an impossibility.

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><p>The two dogs leapt up suddenly as the doorbell rang. Several weeks ago they wouldn't have had the energy or interest to bother. Their improved fitness had mixed benefits, I mused as Dave's rudder-like tale sent the umbrella stand in the hall crashing to the floor. By the time I reached the front door, both dogs had remembered their manners and were sat down, tails thudding, eager to greet whoever happened to be on the other side of the door.<p>

Their enthusiasm allowed me several seconds to regain my composure. Whilst they gleefully greeted Sam, my mind scrambled back to the last time we'd seen each other, almost three months ago. The look on his face and the words that had come out of his mouth hadn't led me to assume he'd be stood on my parents' doorstep this short time later, his mouth stretching into a smile as he patted Chas and Dave. Yet here he was, and something inside of me leapt up, disproportionately pleased to see him.

'Catherine,' he greeted me finally.

'Hello.' I busied myself by reaching for Chas's collar, burying my hands in the thick fur at the back of his neck. 'I... didn't know you were calling around.' People didn't usually just drop into my parents' house without prior warning.

'It wasn't planned.' Sam shifted his weight and I realised that the supposedly easy-going smile was in fact hiding a degree of nervousness. It was something I had never expected to see, but perhaps I should have done. The last time we'd spoken had descended into tearful accusations on both sides; now I considered it I realised I was nervous too. 'I was just in the area. I'm filming something down the road, and when I saw Diane a few weeks ago she mentioned that you were staying here...' He shook his head suddenly. 'If you're busy I can come back...'

I had no idea what I was going to say until the words came flying out. 'No!' Dave jumped at the abrupt tone to my voice. 'I mean... I'm just on my way out.' I gestured vaguely towards the battered boots and scruffy jeans I had on, suddenly wishing I'd done something more when I got dressed that morning. 'Taking the dogs out.'

As if on cue, both of them barked excitedly and Dave knocked the umbrella stand over again.

Sam laughed as he helped me lift it back up. 'I could come with you. If you like.'

I looked up at him and I was hit again by his endearingly charming smile and chocolate brown eyes, just as I had been three years ago. His skin was clear and glowing. He looked every inch the up-and-coming film star he was. Every inch of him spoke of the healthy, privileged young man he was. There couldn't have been a greater contrast between him and Roger.

'I'd like that,' I said eventually. 'I'd like that a lot.'

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><p>Autumn turned to winter and by mid-December it was as though the summer had never happened. I was Catherine Carter once again, on the guest lists of all the major bars and clubs in London, and invited to all the important parties. My summer absence was never mentioned and I found myself perfectly able to reassume the position I'd held before all of that. It was an easy role to play; I'd been doing it all my life. I moved from party to gala dinner effortlessly, my make-up flawless and somehow conjuring up an everlasting supply of fresh outfits. My hair remained firmly blonde, with any hint of re-growth removed at my six-weekly salon appointments, and my nails were kept neatly short and varnished. Any hint of Cat was completely eliminated. It seemed easier.<p>

My old friends accepted me back with barely a question. Nobody asked where I'd been or what had happened, but there was no doubt that the situation had been discussed endlessly behind my back, with all manner of theories put forward as to what had possessed me to leave in the first place, and what exactly had driven me back so unexpectedly. These rumours would, I knew, have been wild and laughable, as all the rumours I'd ever heard before had been. And, just as I'd seen time after time over the years, not a whisper of them ever reached me. If I dared to think it over for more than a few minutes, the sheer falseness of the situation would have hit home. The contrast between this world and the one I'd left behind in Alphabet City was too clear to face, and so I pushed it away, preferring to believe in the enthusiastic greetings from acquaintances I hadn't seen in several months.

A major part of being Catherine Carter was arriving at social functions with Sam Bovey and, perhaps more importantly, leaving at the end of the evening with him. Becoming Sam's girlfriend again came easily to me. He gave no apologies for the behaviour he'd exhibited before I'd left him in the summer, and I never demanded any promises that he would change. Instead, his arm found its old home around my waist, and I readjusted to staring at the cracks in the ceiling, feeling nothing, as he lay snoring next to me. I remembered what it was like to exist in a bubble, feeling nothing. All I could think was that it was less painful than anything I'd experienced recently.

As the Christmas lights went up on Oxford Street and the party season kicked into a higher gear than ever, I looked forward to the new year and leaving everything else behind. It was time to put Roger Davis firmly out of my mind and move forward.

I thought it would be easy.

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><p>When the telephone rang during Sunday dinner, I thought little of it. My mother excused herself and left the table, a motion barely noticed by anybody as the rest of my family discussed the promotion James had recently received at work. For my part, I kept quiet, not daring to say anything in case my true feelings (that it was easy to get a promotion when your father was the boss) were revealed. Even so, despite my disinterest in the proceedings, I found myself drawn into the general hubbub around the table, so that when my mother returned it took me several seconds to register that it was me she was talking to.<p>

'Catherine, there's a man on the phone for you.' A frown had settled on her face.

'A man?' Puzzled, I stood up. 'Is it Sam?' Though he'd been invited to dinner today, Sam was currently in France shooting an independent film, and wouldn't be back in England until a week on Friday, only the day before Christmas Eve. It was just possible he might have called to see how everything was going.

'Of course not. He's American.'

I dropped my napkin. It was illogical, and yet my mind instantly flew to one man in particular, one American in particular. 'Did he... say who he was?'

'He said his name was Mark,' my mother replied, her tone of voice indicating that she didn't entirely believe him. 'Well, are you going or not?' she added a little impatiently.

'Yes.' I scraped my chair back along the floor, earning myself a wince from my father. 'I'll... I won't be a minute, please excuse me.'

The telephone was in the entrance hall to the house, a short walk from the dining room, and yet it seemed endless on that occasion. Each step seemed to take me nearer to the weeks I'd tried to forget and further away from the life I'd tried to cultivate since returning to England. Everything in me was fighting against picking the receiver up, my brain sending alarm bells across my body, trying to prevent me from plunging myself back into that hell once again. But something stronger forced my mouth open finally.

'Hello?'

'Cat? It's Mark. How are you?' The words were awkward and stilted, and he sounded so strange on the telephone that for several moments I doubted whether it really was him.

Hesitantly, I replied, 'I'm... okay. Thank you. How are you?' The pleasantries came as naturally to me as breathing.

'Yeah, I'm fine, I'm...' Suddenly he broke off, and with his next words the Mark I knew came flooding back. 'Actually, it's not so good, Cat. And... I'm sorry for phoning like this, I didn't know what else to do, I... should probably have phoned earlier, but when you didn't reply to my last letter... I thought you would, you see, but we've heard nothing and... well, he's...'

'Mark.' Reluctantly, I interrupted the stream of words as he struggled to express what it was he'd called for. Dreading the answer, I forced myself to ask, 'What's happened?'

There was a long terrible silence. And then, 'He's dying, Cat. Collins is dying.'


	27. Chapter 27

**I know, people don't like my cliffhanger. But it's all to do with themes and stuff. Basically - it's not really a very happy story!**

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><p>My initial reaction was one of relief. The name was unexpected and for a moment my breath was stripped away as I sent a silent prayer to whatever god was looking after Roger. It was a revelation to me that I'd virtually expected this phone call, or one similar. For those few moments, all I could feel was thankful that this wasn't what I had anticipated.<p>

And then Mark's words truly hit home.

'Collins?' My knees shook beneath me as I realised what he had said. Lowering myself ungracefully to the floor, I was instantly set upon by Dave. I was grateful to have something to bury my free hand in and for several seconds I allowed the too-curious dog to nuzzle my face as memories of Collins flooded my brain. The images that passed through my brain, of him smiling, laughing, leaning in to wrap his arms around me, seemed so at odds with what Mark had just told me. 'Collins is...?'

The sheer shock must have been evident even from the other side of the Atlantic. 'Didn't you get my letters?'

I thought of the drawer in my room, full of unopened airmail envelopes, and the dreadful truth washed over me in devastating waves. The letters had arrived with startling regularity and my hesitations had grown shorter. For the last few weeks, I hadn't even considered opening the fresh arrivals before placing them in the drawer. The thought of what may have been locked inside those envelopes had been too terrible to consider opening them. Now it seemed I'd been right about the nightmare contained in those tiny parcels, but it was small comfort. On this occasion, I'd have been happy to have been wrong.

'Sort of,' I managed eventually, unwilling to admit to the dreadful mistake I'd made. 'I... just didn't realise...'

'He's been in hospital for a week now. I'm sorry to phone...'

'Don't apologise.'

'It's just... well, he said not to call you but... we don't know...' Mark tailed off again. It was clear that however hard this was to hear, it was no easier to be the messenger. 'I know that he'd really like to see you and I...'

'It's okay. I'm glad you did. Well, not glad,' I added hastily. 'I mean...'

'I know what you mean.' He let a pause settle. 'So will you come?'

The hope in his voice was like a fresh blow and I lost myself in Dave's neck for a moment. It was the question I'd been dreading him asking because I had no idea how to answer. The thought of Collins lying in a hospital bed ripped me apart in more ways than I could ever have imagined. He'd been there through some of the most hideous moments of my time in New York – and some of the most wonderful. Now he was facing his own nightmare. I should go. And yet...

'Roger's not here.' Mark read my thoughts as only Mark was ever able to.

'He's not...? Where is he?' That old familiar worry stole across me as I imagined where he could be. It didn't really bear thinking about.

'I don't know. He... took off a few weeks ago.' Mark's voice betrayed no hint of any concern or alarm. Was it possible that he'd finally given up on his old friend, detaching himself enough to feel no pain when Roger disappeared? In a way, I hoped so, and yet I couldn't quite believe it; worrying about Roger as much a part of Mark as his camera and glasses. As much a part of Mark as it was of me.

'So will you come?' he asked again now.

The sounds of my family drifted down the hallway towards me, interrupted every few seconds by the steady thump of Dave's tail against the parquet flooring. The Labrador nuzzled my face again before leaping up, barking delightedly as he bounced towards the laughter coming from the dining room. My clothes were covered in black hairs.

'Of course. Of course I'll come.'

* * *

><p>I made it sound so easy, but when I finally settled into my seat in economy class on Wednesday morning, it was with more than a sigh of relief. I was exhausted. The past three days had been full of arguments and hissed comments from my parents. If it had been for any other purpose, for anybody else, I knew I'd have given up at some stage on Sunday evening. As it was, I'd persisted, and had finally prised my father's credit card from his wallet and booked myself an open return flight.<p>

'But you'll be back for Christmas?' Even in the face of defeat, my mother kept battling.

A shrug had been all I was able to offer her and I knew it did nothing to allay her frustration with her youngest child vanishing again less than six months after returning. If I'd been in a crueller mood, I might have enjoyed imagining how she would explain this to her social circle. Allowing your daughter to run away twice could be perceived as carelessness, something which was strongly frowned upon by her friends. It was rare anybody could ruin both somebody's birthday and their Christmas as spectacularly as I was about to.

'It depends what happens,' I said eventually as I packed another pair of jeans and then, reluctantly, tossed a sombre black dress into the suitcase as well. I couldn't remember a time when I'd ever had to pack like this, unsure as to what I might need when I got there.

A pause followed my words and I turned to see my mother standing near my bedroom door, arms folded and a stern look on her face, but something else too. Something I recognised from the times I'd glanced in the mirror over the summer, an echo of what I'd seen in my own eyes. She was worried.

'I have to go.' I tried to speak more kindly. 'Collins... Tom... is a good friend, and he's ill and...' Trying to emphasise the seriousness of the situation was difficult without explaining everything and I didn't think there was enough time in the world for that. Without knowing Collins, all my mother would hear was that he was gay and had AIDS. She'd probably assume drugs were involved too somewhere. A tiny part of me smiled as I conceded that she would be partially right there. 'I have to go,' I concluded eventually.

'What about Sam?' It was a last ditch attempt to make me feel guilty. 'What are you going to tell him?'

'The truth?' I shrugged again and then bit my lip as she glared at me. 'That my friend's ill and I have to go and see him. He'll... understand.'

'He's going to propose on Christmas Day.'

The hairdryer in my hands fell to the floor and my voice rose unexpectedly. 'Propose?'

'I think he thought you were coming to your senses at last.' She left it at that as she gave me a pointed look and raised her eyebrows at me. 'I think you should call him.'

In the event, I chickened out of calling him, even though I knew he'd love the opportunity to use his new mobile phone. If what my mother said was true, and I had no reason to doubt her, then the last thing I wanted to do was to get into a conversation of that sort. Instead, I wrote a short note explaining where I'd gone and that we'd catch up when I got back, before posting it to his London apartment. It would at least give me a few days reprieve before having to face up to the new situation I'd found myself in.

And so when the plane finally left Heathrow airport on Wednesday morning, I forgave myself for giving a small sigh of relief. Whilst what awaited me in New York would make my family problems seem like a Disney film in comparison, there was some comfort in gliding at thirty-thousand feet, knowing that nothing and nobody could contact me here. For the next seven hours, I could do nothing about anything I'd left down on the ground. There was something liberating in that.

It was only now, locked away from the world, that I finally felt able to turn my attention to the bundle of papers in my hand luggage. I'd thrown them in at the last minute, aware of how they'd haunted my every move for the last few months, long before a sense of their true importance had dawned upon me. Now seemed as good a time as any to tackle Mark's letters.

What was perhaps most surprising about his correspondence were the largely mundane events he detailed within them. It was almost like the conversations we'd have at the end of a hot Manhattan day, full of anecdotes from work and amusing stories about Maureen's latest problems. In the first few letters, his mentions of both Roger and Collins were fleeting, simply assuring me that things were alright, they were coping.

'_Things with Roger are going okay. He still isn't perfect but I've seen him worse. He'll be alright. Collins is helping where he can.'_

Gradually, as I read on through the weeks' worth of letters, there came some gradual hints that perhaps things were not as straightforward as they seemed. Roger's progress seemed to be slowing and then there came a surprisingly short letter, written in the middle of November, which seemed to have been dashed off in something of a hurry.

'_Dear Cat,_

_I will write again soon and fill you in on everything, or you could call and we could talk. I know when you gave me this address that you didn't really want to and I know that I twisted your arm. That you haven't replied tells me almost everything I need to know. _

_But the thing is that Collins is really sick now. He didn't want me to tell you but I thought you'd want to know. And I thought – I thought maybe you might come back. Just to visit. I miss you._

_Mark'_

The brevity of the message didn't convey much beyond the bare facts, and yet the simplicity of his words did more to me than any flowery verse could ever have done. A month ago Mark had written to me, asking for my help, and I hadn't responded. That I hadn't read the letter until today meant nothing; I'd let him down. As I flicked through the remaining letters, the extent of my betrayal only became more evident.

'_...I know this letter is getting rather long but there seems little else to do at 3 in the morning when I'm just waiting for the next time Collins wakes up. He seems to be losing track of all time and so I'm fitting in around him. I wish I could get some sleep though...'_

'_... It's true what they say about misery loving company. At least, I know I would like some company these days. Since Collins moved in, it's felt as though it's only really the two of us left in the world, living in this nightmare. I haven't seen Roger in days and whilst Maureen and Joanne drop by when they can, they have their own life. It seems the old fear of plague and illness is still alive and well in New York City. I suppose it's all good practice.'_

The letters became increasingly difficult to read, full of sleep-deprived ramblings and gut-wrenching admissions of loneliness and sadness. Then came the final paragraph of the last letter he had sent, dated only a week ago. It certainly explained why he'd finally found the need to call me on Sunday afternoon.

'_Cat, the truth is that I don't know how much longer Collins has got. I remember when Mimi was dying she faded pretty fast in the end. It wasn't exactly unexpected but it still came as a shock. And that scares me. It scares me how quickly Collins could just disappear. He says I shouldn't bother you, Cat, but I don't know how much longer he's got. Please come. We need you.'_

I closed my eyes slowly, willing the tears to stay firmly locked away. I'd taken my time, but I was getting there now. Better late than never.


	28. Chapter 28

**I apologise for the depressing nature of the fic. But the truth is I think this is one of the best chapters I've written. If you enjoy, review. If you don't, you can review too - I'm up for some criticism.**

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><p>A seven hour flight had given me plenty of opportunity to think about what I would say to Mark when I saw him. I still hadn't reached a conclusion when I reached the coffee shop we'd agreed to meet at on Beekman Street, just around the corner from the New York Downtown Hospital. My months of silence were certain to have placed a strain on our friendship and I didn't know how I was expected to behave. All those years of practice in social situations and when I really needed some guidance, it all failed me.<p>

Yet when I finally saw Mark again, walking in the coffee shop door, none of that mattered. With his red-rimmed eyes and too-pale skin, there was no other way I could have greeted him apart from the way I did. I wrapped my arms around his neck without a second thought, which was strange; I'd never really been one for public displays of affection before my visit to New York.

'Hey.' His voice was muffled against my hair and sounded a little surprised, but his arms locked tightly around my waist in a returning embrace. 'How are you?'

'I'm... fine.' I lifted my head up to look into his weary eyes. 'It's... good to see you.'

He nodded in response. 'Shall we go?'

I followed him out on the street, where snow was falling lightly. It was odd to see snow treated so casually. Here, people were continuing their everyday life despite the white stuff falling from the heavens and lying around on the streets in dirty compacted piles. Things would long ago have ground to a halt in England. In Manhattan, life carried on.

'You look great, by the way,' Mark said now as we crossed the street.

'Thank you. And you...'

'Look like shit.' He snorted but there was a devastating lack of humour in his voice. 'But how are you really? Have you had the results of your tests yet?'

'They came back clear. I have to go again next month, but they're hopeful.' I glanced across at his face, seeing a look of relief washing over his face. 'I'm sorry, I should have let you know, I should have written or something.'

'It's okay. You had a lot to deal with.'

'So had you.' As we came to a brief halt outside the hospital, waiting for people to come out of the doors, I looked Mark squarely in the face. 'How are you?'

For a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer. It was said that people who lived in close proximity picked up traits from each other, and Mark's roommate was certainly the master of evading difficult questions. Then there came a chink in his mask of a face and he both shrugged and shook his head at the same time. 'Okay. Surviving.' He mustered up a small smile from somewhere and delivered the words which made tears prickle my eyes for what would be the first of many times that day. 'Better now you're here. Let's go on up.'

Despite the wintery weather outside, the hospital was typically too hot and before we'd even set foot into the lift I'd wrestled myself out of the woollen coat I'd been wearing. There was always something about hospitals, I felt: a suffocating intensity to the very air we breathed. I'd though the same thing when I'd visited my granddad in hospital before he died seven years ago. There was a strange comfort in the familiar constriction which made talking difficult and eye contact almost impossible. The hundred or so questions I'd thought of on the plane dried up in my mouth and so we made the journey to Collins's room in silence. Once we reached it, I was left momentarily speechless anyway.

Collins was almost unrecognisable from the man I'd left behind in the summer. Our last encounter was firmly etched onto my memory and it was that which came immediately to mind as I stared at the man lying in the bed in front of me. Then, it had been me, curled up and weak, his arms all that was stopping me from falling apart. He'd smiled and kissed me and stuck me back together, albeit temporarily. And now... now he looked like one breath of wind would blow him away. Those strong arms had all but withered away. His once glowing skin was dull and dry. With his eyes closed, the energy which had always surrounded him even when at rest seemed to be dimming and receding. It was like looking at a man thirty years older than the one I'd left in August.

Then his eyes opened. And slowly, a smile spread across his sunken face. 'Cat. _Ma cherie_. I told him not to tell you.' The words were slow and his voice sounded rusty, as though it hadn't been used in a long while. The tubes in his nose were testament to his trouble breathing, as was the rattle that came from his chest. Even those short sentences seemed to take a great deal of energy.

I curled my hands into fists, driving my nails into the palms of my hands and willing myself not to cry. Words weren't easy to find and I searched my mind for something suitable to say, a quip or light-hearted comment which might ease my way into one of the hardest conversations of my life.

He helped me out. 'So don't I get a hug?'

I covered the distance to his bed in a few strides and willingly wrapped my arms around his too-thin frame, burying my head in his neck, finding the familiar scent of marijuana and musty books replaced with an unpleasant clinical odour. My own chest tightened as he tried to return the hug, his arms too emaciated to give me the bone-crushing embraces he'd once been so adept at. I lifted my head up reluctantly as I felt my eyes filling up again.

'Hey.' Collins shook his head. 'No crying allowed. You hear me?'

Embarrassed and ashamed, I nodded and wiped an escaping droplet away with the back of my hand.

'You look fantastic. A sight for sore eyes.'

I glanced down, my hair flopping into my eyes again. 'Thank you.'

'Hey Cohen.' As though he'd only just realised that Mark was in the room too, he directed his next words towards him. 'I told you not to write to her.'

'I didn't. I called her.' Mark stepped forward, his arms folded across himself. It was only now he'd removed his duffle coat that I realised he'd lost an inordinate amount of weight too, his always tiny waist now whittled away to leave him looking ill himself. My heart broke a little bit more at this fresh realisation.

Collins chuckled, and broke into a round of coughing which wracked his entire body. Mark moved as if the whole thing had been choreographed, passing him tissues and a glass of water, rubbing his friend's back until the fit had subsided. Collins finally eased himself back down onto the pillows that were propping him up and turned back to me, exhaustion written across his face.

'You didn't have to come.'

'I wanted to.' I picked his hand up in mine.

He managed the tiniest squeeze of my hand. 'Thank you. It's great to see you.'

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><p>'So what's wrong with him?'<p>

Mark placed his glass of beer down on the table between us and sat back in his seat, shaking his head. 'Too much.' He continued as I raised my eyebrows at him. 'He's had loads of infections since his T-cell count dipped. The doctors are being quite vague about it.' He shrugged. 'I'm not sure it matters, does it?'

'I suppose not,' I agreed in a murmur, playing with the stem of my wine glass and keeping my eyes fixed on the red liquid within it. Of course it made no difference what infection was creeping through Collins's body; knowing its name wouldn't change what it was doing. 'Can't they... treat it or something?' The words sounded hollow even to me.

'They did, for a bit, but... he's just not strong enough. God. I never thought I'd say that about Collins.' Mark let out a long sigh and raised his eyes to mine. 'Sorry.'

'What for?'

'Being so negative.' He mustered up a smile from somewhere. 'I'm so glad you came.'

My eyes slid away from his again. 'I should have come sooner.'

'At least you came eventually.'

There was a pause in our conversation as the waitress brought our meals. The restaurant was close to the hospital and was little more than a glorified diner serving burgers and fries. Neither of us seemed to have much of an appetite but buying dinner gave the day some sense of normality. Besides, going home to my empty hotel room didn't exactly appeal right now. Not after the day we'd had.

We'd spent several hours with Collins, longer than I thought we'd ever be allowed. It seemed that once somebody became as sick as he was, rules about visiting times and numbers of visitors to a bed went out the window somewhat. Apart from one nurse appearing to give Collins an impossible number of tablets and pills, we were left alone, and it was almost possible to forget what had brought us all here. The afternoon had been so far removed from any of my experiences in life so far that it was only now we were back in the real world that I was able to make much sense of it.

Now, as I pushed my dinner around the plate, I posed one of the questions which had dawned on me as we'd walked back through the hospital. 'He's in a private room.'

'Yeah.'

'That must be expensive.' I bit my lip before speaking again. 'If it would help, I could...'

'Stop.'

'What? I'm only offering...'

'I know. I'm telling you to stop.'

'I'm only trying to help.' I'd felt so powerless standing in that hospital room today that doing something, even offering to pay for things on my father's credit card, felt like a necessity.

'I know. But, Cat, it's enough that you're here. And anyway,' Mark picked his glass up and took a gulp of beer, 'Benny is picking up the check.'

'_Benny_?' I was unable to keep a lid on my surprise. '_Benny_ is paying for the room?'

'He's not so bad, not really. Deep down, he's a great guy. And they were roommates back in the day. I suppose Benny just wanted to do something. He's never been good at the emotional stuff.'

'But money is his thing?'

'That doesn't make him a bad person. Not really.'

'I know.' My mind flew to Sam. For all his obsessions with money and fame, he'd never managed to hurt me as much as Roger had that summer. 'Maybe he's got the right idea.'

There was a pause as we both tried to turn our attentions to the plates in front of us, despite our lack of interest. Admittedly, it wasn't very appetising, and I found myself craving the meals we'd had that summer, cooked by either Roger or Mark and tasting like they came from a five-star restaurant. Everything, from the situation to the weather outside to the food in front of us, was so different from my first trip to New York that it felt like a different city. The desire to return home had rarely been stronger. Only now I was back in America did I realise quite how much I'd never belonged here and I momentarily wondered why I'd come at all; there seemed so little I could do.

Then Mark looked up at me again. 'Seriously, Cat. You've got no idea how glad I am you've come. I... I was starting to think this was it, you know? That it was just going to be me. At least now...' He tailed off and the sentence remained unfinished. I knew what he was trying to say anyway. _At least now there's two of us_. This was why I'd come here this December. Just for Mark. There were worse reasons.

'What about Maureen and Joanne?' I asked now, finding it impossible to believe that they'd abandon their friend just when he needed them the most.

'They come and see him when they can. Joanne's tied up with an important case at work and Maureen...' Mark hesitated before saying, 'Maureen's never been good with illness. It's not that she doesn't care it's just... it's all a bit much for her. You know how she is. She likes to think she'll live forever. Being with Collins sort of shatters that illusion.'

Maureen went down in my estimation that day. It seemed that her selfishness extended beyond having to be the centre of attention at all times. I never quite forgave her for leaving Collins, and Mark, so alone.

Now, I mustered up what strength I had left inside me and reached across the table to touch Mark's arm. 'Look, whatever you need – what Collins needs – I want to help. I want...' I shrugged. 'I don't know. How about his family? Where are they?'

'I'm working on that. Collins doesn't want them to know. He says they'll only worry.' Mark rolled his eyes and gave a bitter laugh. 'Funny that. Anyway, I'm trying to find them. He hasn't exactly stayed in touch with them.'

'A row?'

'He's never said. I think they disliked his being gay.' Mark shrugged. 'I don't know when the last time they spoke was. I don't even know who his family are – whether his parents are still alive or if he has many brothers or sisters. He's never really mentioned them. I'm probably wasting my time.'

'Hey,' I said gently, squeezing his arm. 'Don't talk like that. You found me. How did you do that by the way?'

A genuine smile sprang up on Mark's face at that and some of the old sparkle came back into his eyes. 'You've got Joanne to thank for that. It's amazing what some persistence and a law degree can get you, you know. She made out that she was searching for Miss Catherine Carter in connection with an outstanding rent payment on an apartment on Avenue A. Your bank was worryingly keen to help her. What have you done to upset them?'

I gave a brief laugh. 'I don't know. I should probably let my father know, he's the manager.'

'God, will someone get into trouble?' Mark pulled a face. 'I didn't mean to...'

'Relax.' I shook my head. 'I'm not going to complain. I'm... glad you called.'

For a while longer, we pushed our dinners around the plates until they became inedible. Then, when it was clear that our table was wanted by people who were actually hungry, we had a brief argument over the bill, which I won, and then left, stepping out into the biting December wind.

'I suppose you're ready for bed.'

'I hadn't really thought about it,' I admitted, glancing at my watch. It was only early evening but the dark streets made it seem deceptively late. It was strange to think that less than twenty-four hours ago I'd been sat at Heathrow, a world away from where I was now. Put like that, I did feel a bit sleepy.

'I'll walk you to your hotel. That is, unless you want to come back...'

'No.'

Mark glanced across at me, clearly surprised by my decisive answer. There was a long silence as we walked down the street, jostled on all sides by Manhattanites keen to get home after a long day at work. Eventually, just when I thought the conversation was at an end, he spoke again. 'He's not even there, Cat.'

I could have pretended not to know what he was talking about, feigned confusion as to who the 'he' was. It was pointless though and I was partially grateful to Mark for bringing the subject up. A question which had burned a whole in my throat ever since I'd wrapped my arms around him that afternoon finally spilled out of my mouth. 'How is he?'

'He's... alright.' I must have looked doubtful as Mark hurried to say, 'He is, Cat, he's... surviving. At least, he was when I last saw him.'

'Where has he gone?'

'Who knows? He sold his guitar, used the money to buy a car and went. I'm guessing out west somewhere. He's been gone about a month. He hates the fall. He'll come back, sooner or later.'

'But why? When Collins is so ill and...?' I'd dropped everything to be here when I'd heard, and yet Roger had done everything he could to escape. I wasn't sure who was worse, Maureen or him.

'Probably _because_ Collins is so ill. He's not stupid, he knows what's coming next. I guess he just doesn't want to be here when it happens.'

'And in the meantime, you're left to cope?' As we came to the door to my hotel, I stopped and turned to face Mark. 'That doesn't seem very fair.'

'None of this is fair, Cat. I thought you'd got that by now.' Mark sighed. 'Now what time should I meet you tomorrow?'

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><p>The next few days followed a similar pattern. It became clear that it was a routine that both Mark and Collins had fallen into ever since Collins had been hospitalised, and so I no longer questioned why Mark looked almost as ill as our friend. After only three days of visiting, I could feel my spirits sinking lower than I'd ever felt them go before. At the end of each day, I felt drained, exhausted from having to act as though this was the most normal thing in the world. Listening as Collins coughed up what seemed to be most of his lungs. Watching as he put ever more drugs down his throat and his moments of lucidity seemed ever shorter. Even when I'd been curled up with crippling stomach pains on Mark's apartment floor, I'd been able to cling onto some hope. This was utterly bleak.<p>

Mark took advantage of my extra pair of hands to slip away for the odd hour or two in order to complete some filming that had been on the backburner. Buzzline had been patient and considerate for a long time but they were keen for a film to be made about Christmas in Alphabet City and clearly it couldn't wait much longer; if Mark missed this final deadline, he probably wouldn't have another one to meet. I reassured him it was fine, that of course I didn't mind sitting with Collins whilst he was gone. After all, he was my friend too.

The truth was that I was petrified. I had no idea how I'd fill the long silences or continually keep the conversation on an upbeat note. It was the most daunting thing I'd ever have to do.

Collins was asleep when I arrived and so I settled myself in a chair and opened up the copy of _Persuasion_ I'd brought with me. I'd read it so many times that the pages were falling out of it and yet it was about all I could cope with right now. The here and now was so deflating that I wanted nothing more than to escape into nineteenth century England, with all its rules and petty squabbles.

I hadn't expected to become so absorbed in a novel I'd read so many times before, and so it was several minutes before I realised that I was being watched.

'I didn't realise you were awake,' I said finally, putting my book aside and looking up at where Collins was lying. 'How are you?'

'Not so bad, can't complain.' As if his body was determined to argue with him, he immediately broke into a fresh fit of coughing and I jumped up to get him a glass of water. It was several minutes before he was able to speak again. At last, he nodded his thanks to me, and said, 'What are you reading?'

'Oh, nothing.' I shrugged and held the book up. 'It's... old, I've read it before.'

'Ah, Austen.' Collins took the book from me, his hands shaking with the effort. 'I didn't know you were a fan.'

'I'm not, not as such...' I tailed off. Then, in a rush, I added, 'Well, yes, I am actually.' I looked at Collins, forcing an ironic smile onto my face. 'I suppose that makes me a nerd or a geek or something.'

'No.' Collins shook his head as he leafed through the book. 'You think too much of what others think of you.'

This time the smile on my face was more genuine. 'I know. It's a failing.'

He didn't contradict me. 'So what do you like about Miss Austen?'

It surprised me how quickly the words came to my lips. I'd expected to mumble and have to conclude that I didn't know. Instead, I launched into what felt like a fairly eloquent speech. 'I like how she's subtly undermining all of society's rules, whilst seemingly going along with them. There's this amazing humour in everything she does which mocks it all but nicely. I like how the men in it, the good men, don't go around emoting all the time, how they stay so loyal to the women they love. And I like the romance.' At that, I realised how ridiculous it all sounded, and blushed. 'Sorry, I got a bit carried away.'

'No. I liked it.' Collins studied my face intently for a few seconds then turned his attention back to the book in his hand. 'I'm an old romantic too. This line here.' He pointed at the book. '"A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought not; he does not."' He raised his eyes to mine. 'How is Roger?'

The change of topic was so sudden and unexpected that I gave a start. It was the first time anyone had mentioned Roger's name directly since I'd returned to New York and it was alarming how those two syllables hit straight home into my stomach. I had no idea what Mark had told Collins about their friend's whereabouts, or how aware Collins was of Roger's running as fast as he could from New York. To that end, I had no idea how to reply. Instead, I tried to get myself out of the conversation as quickly as possible.

'What has he got to do with it?' I feigned ignorance badly and reached for my book back. 'As far as I know, he has no interest in Jane Austen.' That day in the launderette came back to me, a memory I'd all but suppressed. True, that had been Emily Bronte, but it had proved that Roger was full of surprises. That he took _Pride and Prejudice _on holiday with him every year was a great possibility. Right now, though, the last thing I wanted to talk about was Roger's interest in literature. I didn't really want to talk about Roger at all.

Collins, however, wasn't as keen to let the matter drop. 'It was more the words than anything else,' he stated, as if that hadn't been obvious from the start. 'And you didn't answer my question.' When I still didn't answer, he said, 'Am I to assume that he's yet to show up again?'

'You... know?' It was a relief that I wouldn't have to break the news.

'It's Roger. Of course I know.' Collins rolled his eyes, the weariness all too evident despite his recent sleep. 'When the going gets tough, Roger gets going. He's always been like that. Hell, if I had the choice, I'd probably haul ass too, but...' He gestured down at his body which seemed to be shrinking day by day. 'I just wondered if anyone had heard from him.'

I shook my head. Mark hadn't raised the issue of his missing roommate again since Wednesday and I hadn't ventured to either. Despite the silence, I could feel Mark's concern and worry, it emanated off him in waves. It was another reason to want to hate Roger, and yet the emotion I found cropping up most often was concern too. Old habits die hard.

Now, I tried to reassure Collins a little. 'Mark thinks he'll be back soon. He says he'll be fine.' The words sounded empty and hollow though; 'soon' seemed too vague a term within the four walls of this hospital room.

It was a concept Collins was obviously aware of, as he nodded. 'Yeah, I know. I'd just like to see him.' He didn't add 'before...' but he didn't need to. It was obvious what he meant. Now he sighed heavily. 'Still, I can't blame him for leaving. He's been through a lot already.'

An anger I'd only been vaguely conscious of rose up within me and I had to fight against spitting the words which followed out. 'He's not the only one.' When Collins frowned at me, I found myself stumbling over my words. 'Well, there's... you and there's... Mark... and... and...'

'You?' Collins spoke softly, without accusation, and I hung my head, hoping that it sounded less selfish to him than it did to me. That I'd retained such resentment towards Roger and his treatment of me that summer came as a surprise to me. It had been suppressed and ignored ever since I'd arrived back in England in August. Perhaps this was proof that repression was no way to deal with feelings.

'I didn't mean it like that,' I added now, ashamed of what I'd said. 'I'm not saying that what I went through was anything like what you're going through or... well... what I'm trying to say is...' Shaking my head, I concluded, 'I don't know what I'm trying to say.'

We ceased talking for several minutes. One of the nurses came in to check on Collins, filling the room with her inane chatter which was obviously designed to lift the spirits of the patients on a ward where spirits were at an all time low. It was admirable but seemed incongruous in the surroundings and I was glad when she'd gone and we were alone again.

'I know what you're trying to say,' Collins said eventually, as though the conversation had paused only seconds rather than almost fifteen minutes. 'I know that Roger treated you badly. And I know he hurt you.'

'It's not about me,' I insisted.

Collins continued as if I'd never spoken. 'But he doesn't mean to do these things. Not to you, not to me. He's a great guy really. He's just unhappy.'

'So he has to make everyone else miserable?'

'He doesn't see it like that.' Collins smiled and gave a brief choking laugh. 'If you could just have known him before all this. He was so different.'

Despite my reluctance to discuss the issue, curiosity overtook me. 'Different how?'

'He had this... optimism, an enthusiasm for life. He had twenty plans a day for how he was going to spend his future. That guitar was surgically attached to him, he was always writing songs. And he almost never stopped smiling.'

It was a strange picture Collins painted, a Roger without the dark depression which always seemed just around the corner. My image of him was tainted by those last few weeks where he'd looked more haunted than ever, as if he was running from something he would just never escape. There was a hopelessness about Roger now which was completely at odds with the man Collins remembered. It was sad.

'Roger used to be one of the most generous people you could hope to meet. You should have seen him with April...'

Wearily, I interrupted him. 'April?'

'His girlfriend. The one who started all of this.' Collins shook his head. 'Did you two ever talk?'

'It seems not.'

'It's probably why he likes you. You take him out of himself.' Collins paused. 'I haven't seen him as happy as he was with you for years. It was almost like having the old Roger back again.'

'And then I left,' I concluded bitterly, 'and messed it up again.'

Collins shot me a surprisingly sharp look. 'I'm not saying that. I know why you left. You know, in a way, you and Roger aren't so different. You both run from difficult situations. And I'm not criticising either of you for that,' he added quickly as I bit back a retort. With a sigh, he said, 'I just think you're good for him. And... Cat, he's gonna need somebody. When he shows up again... he's gonna need someone.'

It was such an achingly simple truth that it seemed churlish to argue with him. When Roger finally dragged himself back to New York, as everyone seemed so certain he would, there was no knowing what state he would be in. The memory of how he'd looked the last time I'd seen him had haunted me all autumn and I was unable to wipe it from my mind now. If that Roger still existed, he'd need more than a pat on the back and a welcoming hug. He'd need help.

Yet I still tried to back out of the conversation. 'There's Mark.' I knew even as I said it what a ridiculous suggestion it was. Mark had spent the best part of the last decade holding Roger's hand through whatever drama had erupted in their lives. It wasn't that he didn't want to help his friend. It was that he just wouldn't have the strength left in him anymore. Any last reserves of energy he had left had to go on himself, not Roger. Mark wasn't the solution and I knew it without Collins having to say a word.

So finally, I shook my head. 'I can't be the one who fixes him, Collins. Not this time. I want... more, I want...'

'You still love him. Why else would you be here?'

'I came for you!'

'And I appreciate that. But there's nothing else you can do for me.'

'Don't say that.' Tears prickled my eyes finally, a mixture of anger and fear. 'Don't say that, Collins, please. You could still...'

'Cat... honey...' Collins reached for my hand and gave it a surprisingly hard squeeze. 'It's okay. I'm okay with it. So don't cry.' After a pause, he added, 'The one thing you can do for me now is to look after Roger for me.'

Blinking away tears, I gave a snort of laughter. 'That's emotional blackmail.'

'Gotta get your perks where you can,' he replied, smiling. 'No one's going to refuse a dying man his last wish.'

I brushed my eyes with the back of my hand. 'You really want to use up your last wish on Roger? Why?'

'"There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature."' I glanced up, a question in my eyes. '_Northanger Abbey_,' Collins explained. 'It's always been my favourite.'

* * *

><p>I woke up with a start as the telephone by my bed began to ring. I fumbled for the light switch and then lifted the receiver.<p>

'Hello?'

'Cat, it's Mark. The hospital rang. They think we should come.' When I didn't instantly reply, he added, 'Cat?'

'I'm coming. I'm on my way.'


	29. Chapter 29

There was an eeriness around the hospital after hours, without the bustle of new admissions and visitors. There was a sense of time simply passing and people simply waiting for the morning to come when things would begin again. It was as though the whole building had become a waiting room.

Despite the cold weather outside, I found myself uncomfortably hot as I hurried along the dimly lit corridors. The fresh snow outside had coated my boots and I left wet footprints on the newly polished floor. Even so, I wrestled my scarf off, my face already covered in a light film of sweat. I was almost pleased when I reached the waiting area on Collins's ward.

Almost.

'What's happened?' I asked Mark as soon as I saw him, before I'd even covered the ten metres still between us. 'Is he okay?' As soon as I'd spoken, I bit the words back and tried to rephrase them. We'd been summoned in the middle of the night; of course he wasn't okay. 'I mean...'

'He's lost consciousness. He's... in a sort of coma.' Mark folded his arms around his too-skinny frame. 'They thought we'd want to be here...' Taking a deep breath, he added, 'I've called Maureen and Joanne, they should be here soon. Thanks for coming.'

'Stop, I wanted to come.' I slipped my coat off and then hugged it to myself. 'Can I see him?'

The change from the Collins I'd spoken to that afternoon and the man lying in the bed in front of me was so great as to make them two different people. It now seemed unbelievable that he could have quoted classic literature only hours earlier. Now the only sounds in the room were the regular beeps of the heart monitor and the dreadful hushing sound of the ventilator they'd placed him on. It had been noticeable over the last few days that his body had been failing; now there seemed almost nothing left.

'The nurses said he might still be able to hear us,' Mark said now in an almost whisper. 'They said we could talk to him.'

I nodded but secretly wondered what on earth I could ever find to say to the person in front of me now. I'd often heard of people who had been to see the body of a loved one after they'd died and had returned saying how changed they were, how they weren't the person they'd known in life anymore. That was how Collins seemed to me now, a complete stranger, and I had no idea what I could say to such a man.

I was saved the problem of thinking right at that moment as, with a clatter of heels and a most incongruous screech, Maureen announced her arrival on the ward.

'Mark?'

I glanced across at Mark. 'I can go...' I offered. 'I'll... leave you here with...' Hastily, before he could protest, I backed out of the room. 'I'll get you a coffee,' I added, to which Mark responded with a weak smile.

In the waiting area, Maureen was being politely told off by a nurse for making such a noise. 'We have some very sick patients on this ward, they need their rest.'

'I know, my friend's one of them!' Maureen retorted crossly, her anger beyond even Joanne's control. 'And I want to know...'

I stepped in. 'Maureen, stop.' Turning to the nurse, I tried to soothe the atmosphere. 'She's with me, I'm sorry about...'

The nurse, one I'd not seen before, still seemed less than impressed with Maureen's behaviour, but nodded her approval that she could stay, before moving back to the front desk.

'What's happened?' Maureen demanded. 'Mark said we had to come but he didn't say why. Is Collins okay?'

I momentarily regretted volunteering to come out here and deal with this. It suddenly seemed as though Mark had the easier job, and I flailed as I searched for the right words to explain what had happened. The truth was that there was nothing to explain, nothing new anyway. Anybody with a brain must have known that this day would come. That it still came as such a shock was a memory which would stay with me for the rest of my life.

After several seconds of silence, Joanne spoke. 'Can we see him?'

Grateful to have been let off the hook, I nodded. 'Mark's with him now.'

If Maureen's reaction upon seeing Collins was typically overdramatic, it was also truer than the stilted way we lingered around the edges of the room. With a wail, she was at his side, perched on the bed beside him and holding his limp hands. Tears came easily to her and she made no attempt to stem them. In many ways, I was jealous.

'We should have come sooner,' Joanne remarked in an undertone as she took in the sight before her. 'I'm... sorry, Mark, I didn't really realise...'

'You came enough.' Mark shook his head. 'You were working, you were busy. And Maureen...'

The reminder of how Maureen had spent as little time with Collins as possible over the last few weeks made her display of affection suddenly seem cheaper, and I made my excuses to fetch the coffee. Now wasn't the time for recriminations.

I returned to find Mark on the payphone in the waiting area. He was slumped against the wall with the receiver to his ear, clearly mustering all his strength for the conversation he was having. I hovered a few feet away, trying not to eavesdrop and failing miserably.

'I wouldn't call if it wasn't urgent.' His words were clipped. 'Benny, come on, he was your roommate, he's your _friend_. I know it's the middle of the night, but... the morning might be too late.' There was a pause and he closed his eyes slowly. 'I'll see you in a few then.' He replaced the receiver and gave me a twisted smile. 'Benny's on his way.'

'That's good.' I handed him his coffee.

'Is it? I had to sweet-talk him into coming. One of his oldest friends is dying and he's complaining about being woken up in the night?' Mark shook his head wearily. 'What the hell happened to everybody, Cat? Benny, Roger... even Maureen... what happened?'

It was a question I had asked myself continually since returning to New York days earlier. That feeling of being a part of something special which I had treasured in the summer had vanished without a trace. Now the city seemed huge and terribly lonely. How Mark had survived in it for so long was a mystery.

'What about Stacey?' That was the other question that had been bothering me. I'd met the vivacious red-head only twice, but she'd seemed better than abandoning Mark at a time like this. Yet she'd been nowhere to be seen this winter.

It seemed Mark had all but forgotten about her and looked surprised that I'd remembered. The extra pain which the memory caused him made me wish I'd never asked. 'It didn't work out.' There were no prizes for guessing why.

Now, hoping to make things better in some way, I forced a small smile. 'Well, there's still me.' Shrugging, I added, 'If that's any consolation.'

'It is.' Mark nodded and then reached out an arm for me, pulling me against him. 'Come on. We should go back in.'

* * *

><p>The hours passed painfully slowly at the hospital that night as we moved about restlessly. Conversations were stilted and awkward. The small room where Collins lay became like a prison cell and I had to leave on several occasions, craving fresh air and for the night to end. In more desperate moments, I wished I'd never come back here to face all of this. I wished I could have been more like Roger.<p>

Benny's arrival at the hospital at three in the morning brought some brief activity into what was otherwise a monotonous and tense night. Seeing him reminded me that I still owed him rent money and I made a mental note to put it on my credit card before I returned to England. The likelihood of my ever being allowed to run up such a bill again was slight and I expected it would be confiscated and cut up as soon as I arrived back in Kent. At that moment, I didn't mind much. The thought that I could ever gain any pleasure ever again, particularly from something so frivolous as a shopping spree, was completely at odds with the situation at hand.

At four o'clock, as Maureen, Joanne and I sat unspeaking in the waiting room, Mark came out from Collins's room and sat beside me.

'I'm giving Benny a few minutes alone with him, in case there's anything he wants to say.' He nodded at us all. 'Then I thought we could all take a turn. You know... just...'

None of us replied because we knew what he was saying and it terrified us all. Even Maureen's hysterics had died down and now we sat silently, unable to express anything about this night to each other. I wondered if this was how it would always be, the five people who shared this night forever distanced by the experience. It wasn't a comforting thought.

Benny emerged a few minutes later and immediately stalked off down the corridor, obviously keen not to face anybody just yet. Without anybody speaking, Joanne stood up and took her turn. The three of us who remained continued our silent vigil until finally Maureen spoke.

'Roger should be here.' When neither Mark nor I responded, she persisted. 'He should be here. He's Collins's friend, Collins has done loads for him. He should be here.'

There was a long silence. Then Mark sighed. 'I know. He should.' There was little anybody could add to that and so we lapsed into our own thoughts again until Joanne emerged and Maureen took her place. The strip light above our heads was flickering and casting shadows across the corridor which only made the night seem more unreal than ever. For the rest of my life, that night would always seem half-dream, half-reality.

'I meant to say,' Joanne said at length. Mark glanced up from where he'd been staring at the floor. 'I heard from the private investigator this afternoon. He's found Collins's family. Do you think we should call them?'

Once again, we waited for Mark's thoughts on the matter. Finally. 'I think we should leave it for now. Wait until... after. There's nothing they can do anyway.'

Joanne nodded. 'Sure. In the morning then.'

'Maybe.'

Maureen returned to her chair, her face paler than usual and completely silent apart from her rasping breath as she held back sobs. Any uncharitable thoughts I had had about the way she had behaved recently evaporated as I saw the unbridled grief on her face. My own desire to run away from everything tonight had proven that doing the right thing wasn't always easy. It seemed that Maureen had learnt the error of her ways in the worst way possible and I couldn't dislike her anymore.

I looked at Mark. 'Do you want to...?'

As a delaying tactic, it was entirely unsuccessful. 'You go first.'

So, with my stomach fluttering anxiously as I wondered what on earth I could say once that door was closed behind me, I stepped into the room.

Collins had faded even in the last two hours, his life tipping steadily towards something very different. The change was astonishing and devastating. The room had become stuffier if possible, a growing heaviness in the air which I would recognise one day in the future as the end of life drawing near. With reluctance, I closed the door behind me and stepped towards the bed.

'Hello.' The word hung alone and ridiculous. The sound of my voice in such a clinical space was odd and it took me several seconds to try again. 'It's Cat. Of course, you knew that. Sorry.' Running a hand through my hair, I sat down beside him. 'I'm not very good at this. I don't know what to say.' I bit my lip. 'I suppose... I suppose thank you is what I should say. Thank you for everything. You've been one of the best friends I've ever had and I don't think you ever knew it. We haven't known each other very long and yet you've been there at some of the worst moments in my life and you've made it better. I think you've made a lot of people's lives better. And... I want to say thank you for that.'

Time ticked by after I finished speaking, punctuated only by the ventilator and the ever-slowing beeps on the heart monitor. Collins gave no sign that he had heard anything I said and a wave of self-consciousness crept over me. There seemed little else I could add to what I had already said to him, to the conversation we had had that afternoon. He had accepted his fate, he'd said as much, and so raging and crying over it now seemed decadent and self-indulgent. It wasn't what Collins would have wanted. There was only one thing he'd asked of me and I hadn't replied. His last wish.

'When Roger comes back,' I said now, in a hushed whisper, as though anybody would intrude upon these moments. 'I'll look after him. I'll... fix him. I promise.' Impulsively, I placed a kiss on Collin's cheek, trying to ignore the papery-dryness of his skin. '_Au revoir, mon ami._ _Bien dormir.'_

I left the room without another word, easing the door closed gently, as though the noise could make any difference to Collins now.

'Okay?' Mark glanced up from his hands as I came into his eye-line.

'Yes.' I nodded, and for the first time all night it actually felt as though it might be true. Those few moments alone with Collins had brought a sense of peace with them, an acceptance of what was to be. I supposed it was something akin to the comfort religion could offer its believers and though I'd never truly believed in a higher being I could almost see the attraction now.

The hospital was slowly beginning to wake up now. There had already been a delivery of fresh laundry to the ward and the odd telephone had rung. The nurses were winding down for the end of their shifts, sharing the odd joke and beginning to tidy up their workstations. There was a sense of an end approaching. For my part, I was grateful; the night had been far too long.

And yet, when Mark came back out of the room less than fifteen minutes after I had, his shoulders slumped and his face drawn in an expression of sheer misery, it still hit me hard in the chest that the seemingly impossible had happened and Collins had gone.


	30. Chapter 30

**Thank you for the reviews so far. They're much appreciated.**

* * *

><p>'I should probably call into work.' Joanne's voice was the first to break the silence that had descended over our table in the cafe ever since our breakfasts had arrived in front of us. We'd all pushed the pancakes and maple syrup around without enthusiasm, mainlining coffee and avoiding each other's eyes as the events of the morning churned around our minds.<p>

Maureen roused herself suddenly, her voice more hushed than I'd ever heard it before and raw with the echoes of sobs from hours earlier. 'But you've got that really important case on...'

'It can wait.' Joanne interrupted her girlfriend and then shot her a small smile. 'This is more important.'

At that, Maureen linked her fingers through Joanne's and I looked away, jealous of their closeness. It was a completely inappropriate thought to be having at such a time, when we should have been pulling together and supporting each other, and yet there it was: I wanted somebody to be holding my hand like that. It was only because Joanne spoke again that I was able to stop my thoughts before I realised who I wanted that somebody to be.

'We should call his parents.' When nobody responded, she said, 'Mark?'

Mark finally lifted his eyes from the ground, revealing those painfully dark pits of exhaustion. 'Yeah? Sorry, I wasn't...' He ran a hand over his face. 'Sorry, I wasn't listening. What did you say?'

'We should call his parents,' Joanne repeated. 'I can do it if you like, I've got to call work anyway, and...'

'No, it's fine.' Mark shook his head firmly. 'I'll do it. I'll do it in a bit...'

Benny finally spoke, his voice more authoritative than anybody's so far. 'I think we all need to get some sleep. I can drop you home.'

'I can walk.' I spoke so suddenly and abruptly that everyone turned to look at me, almost as if they'd forgotten I was there. A dazed look was in all of their eyes, confused as to what I was talking about. 'My hotel. It's only around the corner,' I explained, my eyes sliding back down to the unappetising remnants of pancake.

'Aren't you coming back...?' Mark's mystified voice tore into me, worse than if he'd shouted or screamed. 'I mean... I sort of assumed...'

It felt as though everybody was staring at me, judging me for bailing out on them now. I'd come here for Mark and now he really needed me I was deserting him. And yet the thought of going back to Avenue A and walking into that apartment and all the memories it held... it had a vice-like grip on my chest and I had to fight for breath. It was only now I'd returned to the city that I'd realised how suffocating this summer had been. Somehow I knew that being back in Mark and Roger's apartment would beat me, that everything I'd fought against for so long would overpower me finally. I couldn't risk it. But I had no idea how I could explain that to everybody sat around this table.

'Why don't you all come back to our apartment?' Joanne rescued me unexpectedly. Blinking, I lifted my eyes to look at her, as everybody's heads swivelled in her direction. With a shrug, she added, 'We've got plenty of room. And we can all be together.'

We all turned to Mark, our unofficial leader, who nodded. 'Yeah, sounds good. I can call his family from there.'

* * *

><p>'Couldn't he even stay for five minutes?' Maureen barely allowed the door to close behind Benny before her tongue set about giving him a lashing. I'd heard her be far more aggressive before; this morning, she sounded more sad than anything else. Perhaps this was the real Maureen, I mused over yet another cup of coffee. Maybe once you got past the surface layer of self-obsession and hysterics, she was simply crying inside. I was reminded of that other time I'd been here, on what had seemed like the worst night of my life at the time. How things changed in such a short space of time. Maureen's begging of Roger to stop that evening, her eyes filled with tears, had been one of the things which had made me realise there was something very wrong. For almost the first time, I really recognised how much more there was to Maureen than the shallow party-girl. She'd been through almost as much as Roger, just as much as Mark. Perhaps she was just better at hiding it.<p>

'Maybe he needs some time on his own,' Joanne said calmly, handing her girlfriend a cup of coffee. 'You know Benny.'

Maureen snorted but didn't give another reply, slurping her drink gratefully. 'Where's Mark?' She glanced around the apartment, as though he could be hiding behind one of the minimalist shelving units.

'Calling Collins's parents.'

'Already?' Maureen raised her eyebrows. 'Is he okay? I mean, does he need anyone, should I...?'

'He'll be fine.' The three words presented a serious warning, and I wondered how Joanne felt about her girlfriend's ex-boyfriend being such a part of their lives. There was much more to the relationship between Mark and Joanne than that, of course, but when it came down to it, the one person who held them together was Maureen. This morning had only made the link between them more tenuous than ever. Collins had been such a key member of the group. Now he'd gone, things already seemed to be unravelling.

'I was only saying...' Maureen began, that petulant tone coming back into her voice as she tried to justify her words.

'Well don't.' Too late, Joanne realised her mistake and tried to make amends as her girlfriend flounced away from the living area. 'Oh, Mo, wait!' A door slamming behind Maureen was the only reply, and Joanne sank down with a sigh into one of the chrome barstools along the breakfast bar. Head in her hands, she muttered, 'I'm sorry, Cat.'

'You don't need to apologise. Not to me anyway.'

She lifted her head up and gave me a forced smile. 'And how are you doing?'

Shrugging, I stared down at the remains of my coffee. 'I'm alright. Tired.'

'You could have a lie down if you like.' Joanne gestured towards the bedrooms. 'Take your pick.'

My thoughts immediately flew to the last time I'd been in one of those rooms, my head swirling and Roger's mouth pressed up against mine. With a very conscious effort, I pushed the memories away, something which was becoming harder and harder to do. 'I might in a bit. Thank you for letting us come here.'

She nodded. 'It's okay. I thought you might find going back to the apartment hard.'

A bitter smile twisted my mouth. 'Was it that obvious?'

'I think anyone else would feel the same. Have you or Mark heard from Roger recently?'

'I haven't heard from him since the summer.'

'We should try and find him. He'd want to know about Collins.'

There was little I could do but agree with her. 'But we don't know where he is,' I reminded her.

'I found Collins's family.'

As if on cue, Mark appeared from one of the bedrooms. We both turned to look at him and I for one regretted it. He looked worse than ever, in complete shock, a feeling he would soon pass onto the two of us.

'Do you want a cup?' Joanne gestured towards our drinks. When Mark shook his head and sank onto one of the stools, she said, 'Are you okay?'

For several seconds Mark struggled to get any words out and then, 'They're not coming.'

'What?' The word escaped my mouth before I could stop myself.

'Collins's parents. They're not coming.'

'You mean... they want his... _him_... flown to them?' Joanne winced at her choice of words. 'They want to... bury him... near them? That's understandable, Mark, it's...'

'No.' Mark interrupted Joanne in his own quiet fashion, sounding more tired than anyone I'd ever met before. 'That's not what I mean.' Finally, he raised his eyes from the table and looked between us. 'They're not coming and they don't want anything to do with the funeral. With... him.'

My brain was working slowly, not quite managing to grasp what he was saying. Because it was impossible that what I was gathering from the situation could be true, that somebody could behave in such a way. 'You mean...?' I tried to clarify things but Mark quickly interrupted me, his temper rising and tears glimmering in his eyes.

'I mean that they're not interested, not in him, not in the funeral. They don't want anything to do with it all. They think this is a just punishment for the _sins_ he's committed during his life. Oh, sorry, the one thing they will do is _pray_ for him.' He spat the words out like they were poison. 'Pray that their homosexual sinner of a son earns the Lord's forgiveness.' Shaking his head, he gave up all pretence at holding his tears back and they coursed freely down his face.

'You're not serious?' Joanne asked, a question not requiring an answer as it was all too obvious that Mark wasn't playing around. 'Did they say all of that?'

'And more.' Mark wiped his face. 'It was... horrible.'

'Maybe they're in shock,' I put in now, aware how naive my words sounded. 'It could just be shock, couldn't it? They didn't know he was ill, it's come out of the blue, it's...' I tailed off. I thought of my own parents and how they'd react if it were me. And for the first time in many years, I was grateful for them because I knew that no matter what had passed between us, whatever words had been exchanged, if they received a telephone call like that they'd drop everything to be there. That Collins had never experienced the same level of care sent a shiver through my body and I wrapped my arms around myself in a vain attempt to stave it off.

'He never went home. He never mentioned anyone, he never...' Mark put a hand over his mouth. 'I never even asked.'

'He wouldn't have wanted you to,' Joanne insisted. 'You know Collins.'

'Yeah.' Mark nodded. 'I know. It's just...'

'We'll be there,' Joanne continued. 'We'll organise the funeral, we'll be there, we'll lay him to rest. Next to Angel.'

A sad smile broke across Mark's face. 'Yeah. Next to Angel.'

* * *

><p>Joanne and Mark's ambition wasn't quite realised; it had been four years since Angel had died and so the plot eventually set aside for Collins was several hundred feet away from the small stone which marked the last resting place of his boyfriend. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't make much difference. Collins was still gone. Yet the very fact that he was going to finally rest near to the person he'd loved the most in life seemed to bring the others some comfort.<p>

Friday morning dawned and there was a brief lull in the seemingly never-ending snowstorms that had hit New York over the last week. It was as though everything had paused, even the weather, in order for Collins's friends to wish him farewell one last time. The sun shone down weakly, trying to melt what snow lay in banks on the side of the streets and in clumps in the graveyard around the church. In many ways, it was the perfect winter morning, even for someone so averse to the cold as I was.

The mood outside the church was far from perfect though. We stood in an uneasy huddle, almost silent, as we waited for the hearse to arrive.

'Benny could have stretched to a limousine,' Maureen mumbled into her scarf. It was the most dignified outfit I'd ever seen her in; it appeared leather trousers were too risqué for a funeral even for her. 'It wouldn't have killed him.' Secretly I agreed with her, especially as I thrust my hands ever deeper into my coat pockets, but I wisely kept my thoughts to myself. After a pause, when nobody had replied, she qualified her statements with a stamp of her foot. 'It's freezing.'

I glanced over at Mark. He'd been quiet all morning, an unnerving weight descending upon his shoulders as the time ticked closer to eleven o'clock. Now he was standing a little back from everybody else, his arms folded and staring down at the muddy slush on the ground. His jaw was tense and it was as though he hadn't heard any of Maureen's comments.

'It'll be alright.' He jumped as I spoke to him softly, and then gave me a weak smile which in no way reached his eyes. Touching his arm lightly, I added, 'Honestly.'

'I know.' He didn't sound convinced.

I guessed at what was causing the additional anxiety. 'The eulogy?'

He nodded. 'At least there's not a big crowd,' he said a little bitterly as he gestured towards the small huddle of people outside the church. Besides the four of us, there was one other group that I vaguely remembered seeing from around Alphabet City in the summer, people who lingered on the edges of the circle. It was a poor turnout which I knew was only making Mark unhappier than ever. 'The university didn't even send a token representative. All the time he gave them and...' His words died out as the hearse came to a stop outside the church. We didn't get a chance to speak again until after the funeral.

It was colder inside the church than it had been outside and I huddled inside my coat. When we were all seated, the congregation barely filled the first two pews and the emptiness weighed down upon me unbearably. It only reminded me of how full the room had always seemed when Collins was in, and now he was lying in a box in front of us and we hadn't even been able to fill a small church for his funeral. I was thankful that I was on the front pew, unable to see the vast space behind me.

The funeral was simple and brief. The vicar's words echoed around the church, familiar and completely devoid of any comfort. He deserved so much more than this, so much more than a few empty words and a dozen people bowing their heads at the right times. I sent a silent message of my own to Collins: _I'm so sorry. _

By the time Mark stood up to deliver his eulogy, I had all but switched off from the events in front of me. This wasn't anything to do with Collins any more, it could have been anybody in the coffin in front of us. In some ways, it made it easier to lift my head and give Mark a steadying nod, easier to be the strong one. In a faltering voice, he began to speak, explaining how he'd first met Collins, relating a few anecdotes which made Maureen smile. He was doing well.

The church door flew open with a bang and a gust of cold air. Mark broke off from his words and lifted his head to look over our heads. The way his face changed finally convinced me to turn my head and look.

Roger looked straight back at me.


	31. Chapter 31

**Thanks for the reviews which keep trickling in :) There's a bit of an extended author's note at the end which I wanted to share with you - ignore it if you want.**

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><p>The sun was shining a little more brightly now but the day was no warmer. As we walked back from the graveside to the pathway outside the church, I fell into step beside Joanne and Maureen.<p>

'You okay?' Maureen slipped an arm around my waist in the over-familiar way only she could ever get away with. Her mascara was smudged around her eyes, the very image of grief.

I nodded, grateful that I'd foregone the temptation to wear much make-up today. I probably looked about seventeen and pasty, but at least I didn't look like I'd gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson. 'You?'

Maureen nodded too. Reaching the path, she drew to a halt and glanced over her shoulder. 'What about him?'

Both Joanne and I followed her gaze. There were still two figures down by the graveside, sitting on the bench closest to where Collins's coffin was being covered with six feet of soil. Mark's dark suit and black coat only made Roger's jeans and leather jacket combo seem even more inappropriate, even at this distance. Both of them were hunched forwards, side by side and avoiding eye contact. We could only imagine how that conversation was going.

'Which one?' Joanne remarked eventually.

'Both of them.' Maureen shrugged. 'I wish they'd hurry up, I'm freezing.' After a pause, she added, 'How did you think Roger looked?'

Joanne glanced at me, a look filled with questions, before she turned to answer. 'Okay. Better, anyway. Don't you think, Cat?'

I gave a non-committal nod as I stared down at the ground, not trusting my eyes not to drift back down to where the two men were sitting. It would have been nice to have said I didn't have an opinion on the subject, that I'd not looked at him enough to notice how he looked. I hated telling lies though, and the truth was that I'd drunk everything about Roger in, in that first glance. His clothes looked as dishevelled as ever, with just a scarf and a leather jacket as a nod towards the bitter wind outside. His hair was slightly longer than it had been in the summer and seemed blonder, his skin seemed browner. Joanne was right, he did look better, but that was hardly much of a compliment; he'd looked awful the last time I'd seen him. It was with a painful twist of my stomach that I admitted to myself that he looked better than he ever had before.

'How did he know?' Maureen asked, her eyes still riveted on Mark and Roger. 'I thought Mark couldn't get hold of him?'

'He couldn't.' I forced myself to speak. 'He tried, but he had no idea where he was.' It was just one of the many things that had kept Mark awake night after night over the last week.

'So why would he show up now?'

It was a question none of us could answer and we fell silent as Mark made his way towards us, leaving Roger sitting at the bench, unmoved.

Maureen greeted Mark in a similar fashion to how she'd greeted me earlier, wrapping her arm around his waist. 'Are you okay?'

Mark nodded, and immediately changed the subject from his own well-being. 'He wants us to go on ahead. Says he'll join us later back at the apartment.' It was clear that he wasn't comfortable with leaving his roommate alone at the graveside. With a glance over his shoulder, he added, 'I was thinking, you guys could probably cope without me for a bit, I could stay...'

'Mark!' Maureen interrupted him. 'You can't!'

'Why not? It's not as though you'll have hoards of people showing up.' Once again, he gestured bitterly towards the shrinking group of mourners.

'All the more reason for you to be there!' Maureen shot her girlfriend a look. 'Joanne, tell him!'

Before the lawyer could open her mouth to protest, to point out she had no jurisdiction on this matter, that Mark could do as he pleased, particularly where his best friend was concerned, I spoke. The words surprised even me. 'I'll stay.' All three of them stared at me suddenly, as if they'd only just remembered I was there. I swallowed hard. 'With Roger, I mean. I'll... stay.'

'Cat, it's fine, you don't have to.' Mark shook his head, instantly dismissing the idea.

'I don't mind.' I met his eyes firmly, suddenly certain that this was what I wanted, what I _needed_ to do. The empty feeling I'd had during the service remained, reminding me that it hadn't been enough for Collins. Mark had laboured over the eulogy, Maureen and Joanne had opened their home up to us. It was my turn to do something. And there was only one thing Collins had wanted from me. 'You should be at the wake,' I added.

Maureen and Joanne accepted my decision as the final word and began to make their way down the pathway towards the nearest subway station. Mark hung back beside me, his eyes filled with concern, something I'd have thought he'd have run out of by now.

'Are you sure?'

'Certain.' I nodded. Then, a little less confidently, I added, 'How is he?'

Mark shrugged and glanced back at where his best friend was still sitting. 'He's okay. Shocked. He's not very talkative.'

'How unusual.' My words at least elicited a weak grin from Mark, the first I'd seen since coming to New York just over a week ago. Smiling back, I said softly, 'It'll be alright, Mark, I'm sure. I just... I want to do this.'

After a long pause, Mark nodded. 'Okay. Just... take care of yourself, yeah? Don't...' He tailed off and shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'I'll be fine.' I gave him a brief hug, feeling the tension in his shoulders. 'Go on, Maureen will have a fit if she has to wait any longer for you.'

Just before he left, Mark looked back at me. 'It was alright, wasn't it? The funeral?'

That familiar heartache for Mark returned and I bit my tongue to stave off the tears, before nodding. 'It was fine.' Mark nodded silently and then headed after Maureen and Joanne, his hands in his pockets and his head down. I knew he'd be fine with them, and yet I still silently cursed Collins's last wish; at that moment, I couldn't help feeling that Mark might need me much more than Roger did. The choice was out of my hands though. With a deep breath, I turned towards the graveside again and began the seemingly endless walk towards Roger.

He must have seen me coming long before I came to a halt in front of him, must have sensed the approach of someone else. It was only when I stopped in his eye-line, though, feet neatly placed together in my impractical heels, that he raised his head and made eye contact.

'Hey.'

'Hello.' I fought to try and catch my breath subtly, momentarily taken aback by those blue eyes staring into mine. It was a reaction I hadn't expected and it took me several seconds to get over, all watched unblinkingly by Roger. 'Is anyone sitting here?' I managed eventually, trying to sound casual and failing as a self-conscious giggle crept into my voice.

My question at least seemed to put Roger on the back-foot. 'Yeah. I mean... no. If you want to...' He tailed off and I took the opportunity to sit down next to him. The bench was freezing and a little damp. I pulled my coat more tightly around myself and huddled into it.

'How are you?' I asked after a short pause.

'Fine. You?'

'Fine.' I nodded and then fell silent again, reluctant to be the next one to speak. It was as though this was a game, one which would have dire consequences if I were to lose. The trouble was that it was a game which Roger had much more experience at playing. As the minutes ticked away, I found myself shifting uncomfortably beside him, tracing shapes in the ground with my toe. This amount of silence was unnatural, surely.

And then, finally, as if he knew that it was up to him to lose this round, Roger spoke. 'So you drew the short straw?' In answer, I gave him a quizzical look. 'Baby-sitting me,' he added by way of explanation. 'I guessed Mark wouldn't just walk away like that.'

The certainty of his friend's loyalty annoyed me a little; Roger had done little to earn Mark's fealty in recent months. Mark would be well within his rights to stride away from Roger for good, never once looking back. Not that that would improve his life. I'd learnt that to my cost already.

I deliberately evaded his initial question. 'It's good to see you.' After all this time, it came as somewhat of a surprise that I was telling the truth.

It was clearly as much of a surprise for Roger as it had been for me, as he turned to look at me briefly. 'Yeah, you too. How long have you...?'

'Not long. I only came last week.' That it felt like a lifetime was neither here nor there. The last six months had felt like a decade and I was startled every time I looked in the mirror to see that I'd barely aged since the last photos taken of me back in June at a friend's birthday party. I was twenty-five on the surface and felt about fifty underneath.

'For Christmas or...?' He left his sentence hanging again, edging around the reason for us being sat on this bench on this cold and bleak day. As though this was the natural progression from the way we'd parted in the summer.

'Mark called me. He wanted me to come.'

Roger nodded, burying his hands ever deeper inside his jacket pockets. 'Yeah, figures. So are you and him...?'

Stunned, I shook my head, only managing to force the words out when he turned to look at me. 'No! We're... we're just friends!' Roger didn't reply. 'You know that. You really think Mark would do that to you? That I would?' My last words were said in a half-whisper and were torn from somewhere deep inside me, somewhere I'd worked very hard to seal up and isolate over the last few months. That I'd managed to rip that particular Pandora's box open within minutes of being back in Roger's presence sent shivers down my spine. This wasn't what I'd planned when I'd volunteered to stay with Roger this afternoon.

At length, Roger replied, with a slight shake of his head which betrayed his self-disgust. 'No. I... I'm sorry, I know...' He tailed off again but it was more than I'd expected from him. Apologies were a part of the Roger I'd first met all those months ago. They hadn't been very thick on the ground when I'd left New York in August. It gave me hope.

I took a chance. 'Mark's been worried about you. We all have.'

A wry smile crossed Roger's face and I couldn't help thinking of all the times I'd said something similar before. 'I know.'

'Where have you been?'

He shrugged. 'Nowhere special. I just... needed to get away for a bit.'

'Somewhere without telephones?'

It was the closest I'd ever come to a barbed comment and it didn't really have the desired effect; rather than feeling cowed, Roger smiled again, a little sheepishly, and said, 'I should have called. You know that sarcasm doesn't really suit you, don't you?' After a pause, he added, 'I was out West. Santa Fe. I've got some friends there.'

I raised an eyebrow. '_Old_ friends?' Despite the many layers he had on, I had to actively prevent my eyes from flying to the crooks of his elbow. The image of the last time I'd seen him appeared unbidden and unwanted in my mind, as if it had just been waiting for an opportunity to rear its extremely ugly head.

He caught my eye. 'I've known them a few years, yeah. They're... not important.' As his eyes slid away from mine and gazed back out across the cemetery, I supposed he was right. Where he'd been and who with weren't the main issue right now.

'We did try to find you,' I began.

'Yeah, Mark said.'

'It isn't that we didn't want you here...'

'No, I know.'

'It's just...'

'Cat.' My name on his lips silenced me instantly. 'It's fine.'

I left a suitable silence before I spoke again. 'So how did you know to come here today?'

'I didn't. Not really.' When it became that that wasn't enough of an explanation, he continued. 'I wanted to come home. It felt like time. And... it's Christmas.' It was with a start that I realised I'd forgotten that, amidst the whirlwind of coming to New York and the funeral arrangements. A funny kind of Christmas.

'But how did you know we'd be here?'

'I guessed the food back at the apartment wasn't a welcome home feast for me.' The words were spoken lightly enough but in them I could see what it had been like for Roger to return home today. When he'd last walked out of the apartment, Collins had been lying in the next room. The tables of food which Mark and Joanne had placed out early this morning must have come as a shock, telling him without words about everything he'd missed in the months he'd been gone. I balled my hands into fists as I realised he'd gone through that all on his own.

'I should have come back sooner.'

I didn't say anything because I agreed, he should have done. There was a limit to how much sympathy I could extend towards him when I'd lived alongside Mark for the last week. But then I should have opened those letters sooner, should have made my own return trip weeks ago. We were both equally to blame.

'I just thought... I thought there'd be time.'

'For what?'

'For... everything.' With an exasperated sigh, Roger got to his feet and kicked a stone across the path. 'There was so much I wanted to say to him, to tell him. I wanted to... oh God, I don't know. Hear him laugh, tell him a joke, have him tell me to sort my life out, anything. I... I wanted to apologise to him.' His shoulders sagged, a physical embodiment of his internal misery.

'He didn't hold it against you.' Under the circumstances, there seemed little point in maintaining a frosty front; Roger was doing a good enough job of punishing himself already. Besides, Collins would have been the first person to have let his friend off the hook.

'That's not the point.' Roger turned to stare out across the cemetery again, the far-reaching gaze of one who had been here too many times before. If anyone knew what it meant to have left things unsaid, it was him. 'I wanted him to know.'

A flutter of movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention, and I watched as the gravediggers placed the last shovelful of soil over Collins's grave. With a final pat, they stepped back and shouldered their tools, placing the cluster of wreaths and bouquets on top of the mound, before striding away. Leaving Collins alone, finally.

'I think he does now,' I said. I spoke softly, the words taking me by surprise, let alone Roger, who turned to look at me.

His eyes were glassy and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand as he spoke. 'I didn't know you believed in that kind of thing.'

Shaking my head, I said, 'I don't, normally. I just... I can't quite believe someone like Collins could really be gone. Not completely.'

Roger nodded slowly. 'No, I know.'

I met his eye and felt my stomach turn inside out. Whatever intentions I'd had in coming over to Roger today, however I'd tried to tell myself that I could carry out Collins's last wish without batting an eyelid it was patently clear to me already that I couldn't. To do as my friend had asked me to meant opening myself up again and undoing all the progress I'd made since returning to England in the autumn. The memory of how much Roger had hurt me that summer, of how low I'd been driven, resurfaced. It was real and raw and painful, surely a deterrent for anybody.

I got to my feet. 'Do you want to get a coffee?'

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><p>It was a relief to be out of the cold and in the warmth of a coffee shop a few blocks away from the cemetery. The floor was wet with melted snow and all around us people were shedding layers as they exclaimed over the packed crowds they'd braved in order to pick up the last of their Christmas gifts. Again, I was startled into realising it was 23rd December and I hadn't so much as considered what I'd be doing for Christmas. Sam would be home from France by now, he'd have read my confused and rambling letter. Now that the funeral was over, reality seemed to be creeping in again.<p>

'I got you a tea.' Roger slid the cup across the table towards me. 'Is that okay?'

I nodded, only half thinking about the drink in front of me.

'So.' Roger leant his elbows on the table. 'What have you been doing? In England, I mean,' he added when I gave him a small frown.

What had I been doing? It all seemed so shallow now, so pathetic and meaningless. In comparison to what had been happening here, my life in England was a different world. Just as Roger had always said. Even if I was back at my parents' house, perhaps a more normal existence for an unemployed twenty-five-year old than lounging around a Kensington apartment, the rest of my life was just as it had been when I'd first run away to New York. To admit that to Roger would be more than I could bear right now. And so I didn't.

'I've got a job.'

'Really?' Roger broke into a smile, an open and completely genuine smile. 'That's brilliant.'

I nodded. If it was true, it would be. Being back in New York reminded me of how satisfied I'd felt at the end of each day at the cafe, the friendships I'd built with the other staff, especially Lydia. Lydia who I hadn't so much as telephoned in the week I'd been back. Quite why Collins had thought I'd be good at this job was beyond me; I couldn't even be a good friend to somebody.

'So what is it?' He settled back into his seat and took a sip of his coffee, as though this was an ordinary conversation between two old friends meeting by chance on a snowy New York afternoon.

I said the first thing that came into my head. 'I'm only waitressing.' It was the only job I'd ever really understood and so it seemed the only logical choice for this colossal lie. 'In a restaurant,' I added, unnecessarily, as though it made the story more believable, and hoped it would be enough. My words already tasted foul and poisonous in my mouth.

'And your parents are okay with that?'

I nodded reluctantly, knowing that it was hardly logical character development; the parents I'd outlined to him in the summer would never have been happy with their daughter serving other people. Hopefully he'd overlook that though. Miracles did sometimes happen after all.

'Then that's great. Honestly Cat,' he continued, his delight in my news obvious and overwhelming. 'It's brilliant. I know how much you wanted things to change when you went back, and this is...'

Suddenly I couldn't bear his praise any longer and so I cut him off. 'I'm getting married.' The lie silenced him instantly, his mouth open in surprise. I took the opportunity to plough on to leave him in no doubt that my life since him had carried on, almost unbroken. 'To Sam.'

Finally he managed to reply. 'Oh.'

'Yes.'

His eyes slid towards the door and every muscle seemed tense and ready for flight. Because that was what Roger did, he ran away from the things he couldn't deal with. Any second now, I was certain he'd stand up, perhaps knocking his chair over in the process, and the door would bang shut behind him. People would glance around, looking from his departing back to my face, and then would go back to their lattes and muffins. Life would carry on.

'Congratulations. He's a lucky man.' Startled, I was unable to reply immediately. 'Seriously, Cat, I'm... pleased.' If he was lying, he was doing a good job of it, and I realised I had no reason to disbelieve him. Maybe this new Roger had changed in more ways than one. Now he took the opportunity of me being stunned into silence to broach an even more difficult subject. 'Cat... what happened in the summer...' He fiddled with his cup of coffee, drumming his fingers against it awkwardly. 'I'm really sorry...'

'It's fine.' I cut him off, unwilling to revisit that place right now.

'Is it though?' The urgency in his words made me look up at him and see suddenly that this had been weighing on him since the day he'd walked out of the apartment all those months ago.

'Yes.' I nodded and saw some of that tension lift. 'I should have written and told you, or something, I'm sorry...'

'It's okay.' Roger shook his head. 'I know why you didn't. I... I'd probably have done the same.' He made an attempt at lightening the mood. 'Besides, I don't suppose you've given me much thought, have you? What with planning the wedding and everything.'

I met his eyes for a minute, those strange blue eyes which had haunted me ever since I'd first looked into them all those months ago. Now all I could see in them was genuine warmth, a delight that everything had worked out well for me in the end. That he couldn't be further from the truth drove all the air out of my lungs and I knew I had to escape from this moment as soon as possible.

'Talking of Sam, I should probably call him.' I stood up abruptly, knocking the table and spilling both Roger's and my drinks. 'Sorry.'

'It's okay.' He frowned. 'Are _you_ okay?'

I nodded and dived my way through the increasing crowds in the coffee shop, desperate to find myself a small space to think in. It was too much to ask for in New York City though; I made my call to Sam from a pay phone on the street with my heart still pounding and the taste of my lies still lingering on my tongue.

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><p><strong>Optional AN: I wrote this chapter around 4 to 5 weeks ago having had it planned in my head for a while. The image of Cat and Roger at the graveside was with me from fairly early on in this process. The actual conversation was slower to come to mind, and yet an enduring idea was what Cat expresses partway through the chapter, that she refuses to believe that someone like Collins could really be gone. I've never been a massively religious person in the traditional sense and Cat reflects that to some extent, but my job in a church school means I have been exposed to more religion in the last few years than ever before. **

**Then three weeks ago, some very sad news came my way: one of my students had passed away after a very long and brave battle with cancer. It hit me quite hard, especially as he and his friends mean an awful lot to me, even as many of them drove me insane for 2 years. For the first time, I opted to attend a church service that day and found a lot of comfort in it; similarly, his funeral last week. It seemed almost spooky to me that I'd written that about Collins when I so very much believe that about this boy now. A true inspiration. I couldn't let this chapter go by without expressing that.**


	32. Chapter 32

If I'd hoped speaking to Sam would make me feel any better, I'd have been disappointed. He made a few bluntly worded comments about how I'd left without much warning and not contacted anyone since. There wasn't much sympathy expressed for Collins or even for me, his girlfriend. It was lucky that I'd telephoned him without any expectation that he'd comfort me.

'So when are you coming home?' The boredom with the conversation was clear, and for half a moment I felt guilty at burdening him with all of this when he'd only just returned from what would have been a gruelling few weeks on location. Then I pushed the feeling aside; I couldn't feel guilty about anything else right now.

'I'm not sure.'

'But you are coming home for Christmas?' His irritation only grew when I didn't reply. 'Catherine?'

'It depends on flights,' I replied eventually, knowing it sounded like a lame excuse even though it happened to be true. 'They'll probably be fully booked by now.'

'You mean you haven't even booked a flight yet? How long were you planning on staying?'

'I hadn't really planned anything.' I closed my eyes, wishing I'd never started this conversation. 'It's complicated, Sam. I... I'll let you know what I'm doing.'

There was little to say after that and we finished the call awkwardly, almost as strangers. If I'd wanted Sam to tell me everything would be all right, I'd have been disappointed too, but maybe that was better than asking him to lie to me. Everything was far from all right, something only proven by the table I found myself sat around only hours later. The absence of Collins had never been more obvious; it was as though Roger's return only highlighted who else was missing.

It had been Mark's idea for us to meet up at the Life Cafe this evening and his telephone call shortly after I'd returned to the hotel that afternoon was more of a demand than a request. Now I could see why, as we sat silently, a marked contrast to the lively group we'd made in the summer. I'd have cried if I had the energy left.

'So what's everybody doing for Christmas?' Maureen broke the silence, speaking over the scraping of our cutlery as we pushed the food listlessly around the plates. It was so at odds with the general mood that we all looked up, startled. 'What? It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. Joanne and I are going to stay with her parents.'

'Is that wise?' Mark raised his eyebrows. 'Didn't you almost set fire to the house the last time you visited them?'

'They've just about forgiven her,' Joanne remarked drily. 'Since she's given up smoking she should be able to avoid making that mistake again.'

Maureen ignored their ribbing of her, and instead fired the question towards Mark. 'How about you, anyway? What are you doing?'

He gave her a withering look. 'I'm Jewish.'

'I know that!' Maureen rolled her eyes. 'But I thought you'd be going back to Scarsdale. You missed Hanukkah after all...' Her voice trailed off as she remembered why he'd missed Hanukkah. He'd been rather tied up with other things at the end of November. 'I was only asking,' she added eventually, in a smaller voice than I'd ever heard Maureen use before.

'I know.' Mark nodded kindly. 'And I am popping back for a few days. You know what my mom's like. Speaking of which,' he turned to Roger, 'your mom called and left a message.'

Roger looked up from his beer. 'Oh yeah?'

'The usual. She wants to know if you're going home for Christmas.' There was the whisper of a question in his voice.

'Oh right.' Abruptly, Roger stood up and pushed his chair back from the table. 'Anyone want a drink?'

Taken aback, we all shook our heads and watched as he left our table to go and order himself another beer.

'And there he goes again.'

'Maureen, don't.' Mark gave her a weary look, one which silenced even his ex-girlfriend. She'd only said what we'd all been thinking, but none of us wanted to hear it anymore. That Roger would run away from awkward situations was a foregone conclusion, though one which didn't get any easier to handle each time he did it. And yet I was reminded of how differently he'd behaved only that afternoon, able to continue our conversation when I was ready to bolt myself. It was almost worse to find that it had been a one-off occurrence than if it had never happened at all.

In an attempt to move the conversation along, Mark turned to me. 'How about you, Cat? Heading home for Christmas?'

The question was inevitable and so it was my own fault that I didn't have an answer prepared and stumbled over my words. 'Oh... I... I hadn't really thought about it... I mean... probably... it depends... on... flights and things.' As they all gazed at me with some disbelieving looks on their faces, I added, with a smile much brighter than I felt, 'But I'll be alright. I don't mind.'

'Cat, you can't spend Christmas on your own!' Maureen, as ever, was the first to voice her thoughts. She'd have been easy to ignore if it wasn't for Mark's next words.

'She's right, Cat. I'd invite you with me but the house will be packed and...'

'Oh it's fine!' I reassured him. 'You go. I'm... a big girl, I can occupy myself for a couple of days. I'm in New York for goodness sake!' My laughter was empty as the thought of spending those days alone hit me. I could have been anywhere in the world, doing anything, and I still knew that I wouldn't want to be on my own over the next few days. It wasn't a feeling I would readily admit to though, not when there was nothing anybody could do about it. 'I'll be fine on my own.'

'Why would you be on your own?' Roger's voice interrupted our conversation as he rejoined our table. He looked around before resting his gaze on me. 'I'll be here. What?' he demanded as Maureen's giggles cut across the stunned silence following his offer. 'What's funny?'

Maureen stifled her laughter almost instantly, looking warily between Roger and me, throwing both Joanne and Mark anxious glances. She was so changed, I thought at that moment, so different from the self-confident woman I'd met in the summer. What kind of world was this when someone like Maureen could feel so ashamed of a fit of giggles?

'Nothing…' she stumbled over her words. 'I was just… I mean… well…' She shrugged. 'You've never been the biggest fan of Christmas yourself, I just thought that… it might be a bit…'

Roger stared at her for several seconds, his face a blank and his thoughts unreadable. Then he said, 'Right.' With a nod, he turned and made his way back to the bar, beer still in his hand.

'I didn't mean…' Maureen looked between the three of us again, panic written all over her face. 'I was just… I…' Tears filled her eyes, her face a reminder of that evening at her apartment all those months ago, another time Roger had run away.

The time I'd gone after him.

I pushed my plate away and stood up. 'I know. Excuse me for a second.'

Pushing my way through the increasing crowd in The Life Café, people whose conversations were loud and filled with laughter, a million miles from our sad table in the corner, I had no idea what I was doing. It was as though my body had taken on a life of its own and my feet were carrying me towards Roger without my brain being involved. Perhaps it wasn't so unexpected; I'd never really acted with my head where he was concerned, after all.

When I finally slid in beside Roger at the bar, close enough to smell the ever-present tobacco which I would forever associate with him, I was still no clearer on what I wanted to say or why. Seconds ticked down without him even acknowledging my presence, indicating that it was clearly my turn to speak first this time. I'd give him that much.

'Maureen didn't mean…'

'No, I know.' He cut me off as the bartender returned with a small glass of whisky and he gestured towards it. 'Do you want one?'

'No.' I shook my head and he paid for the drink and knocked it back before I could pick up my own train of thought again. 'She was only saying…'

'I said I know. Same again.'

As the bartender turned to refill his glass, I ventured to say, in a very small voice, 'Do you think you should?'

'Should what?'

I gestured towards the re-filled glass hesitantly. For a moment a look of anger passed across Roger's face, indignant that anybody should question his habits. His hand tightened around the glass. And then, with a slump of his shoulders, he pulled his hand away. 'Probably not. Do you want it?'

'I've never been a fan.'

He sighed and pushed the glass away before leaning on the bar, his eyes still resolutely turned away from me. It made it easier, somehow, despite our close proximity to each other. I studied the well-worn surface of the bar as I tried to think what I wanted to say, how I could phrase all the thoughts which had been pouring through my head since I'd turned to see him standing at the back of the church that afternoon. Already the funeral seemed like it had happened weeks ago instead of mere hours. That overarching tiredness swept over me again.

'You should go home,' Roger said eventually, quietly and unexpectedly.

I looked at him, my mouth open in surprise. The last thing I'd expected him to do was to order me away. 'What do you mean?'

He shrugged. 'It's Christmas. You should be with your family. With… your _fiancée_.' The awkward way in which he referred to Sam told me more than the word itself did. 'You should see if you can get a flight.'

'And what about you? What will you do?' When he didn't reply I prompted him. 'You can't be on your for Christmas, Roger.

'I don't mind. Anyway, it doesn't look as though I have much of a choice, does it?' He picked his whisky glass up again and tilted it, watching as the light caught the amber liquid. After a pause, he glanced at me, his mouth twisted in an ugly and insincere smile. 'I'll be fine.'

'What about your family?'

'What about them?'

'You could visit them.' Roger snorted. 'Why not? It's been _six years_!'

'That's precisely why not.'

'What does that mean?'

He turned to face me again, slowly and wearily, and for a moment I was reminded of the age gap between us. Five years had never sounded like much, but now Roger looked every one of his thirty years and more. His life had been so much different from mine, so much different from anyone else's I knew, that he'd lived more in dog years than anything else. Now he spoke to me as you would a child, explaining something slowly and carefully and in a way you thought they could understand.

'It's been six years, Cat. I'm… a different person from the one they knew. So much has happened. Too much. How could I explain it all to them?'

'They're your parents. They'd understand.'

'Would yours?'

I winced at the comment and gave a small, bitter smile. 'No. But I'd hope your parents are nicer than mine.' Roger rewarded me with a smile of his own. Encouraged, I continued. 'Roger, seriously. Just… think about it. I… I can't bear to think of you rattling around that apartment all alone at Christmas.' It was more than I'd wanted to say and I dipped my head, breaking eye contact with him and almost hoping to break the conversation too.

My last wish wasn't granted.

'Come with me.'

'What?' The shock forced the impolite response from me, and made Roger's face break into a grin, the first real sign of humour I'd seen in him since he'd returned. 'I mean… I don't understand.'

'Come with me. To my parents, for Christmas. Just as friends,' he added hastily as I began trying to protest. 'Just… keep me company or something. If you can't get a flight home.'

I rolled my eyes. 'It's Christmas Eve tomorrow. I'm hardly likely to get a flight.'

'So come with me.' It was the most animated Roger had been all day. 'We can drive up tomorrow.'

Uncertain, I trotted out the excuses I could think of, unwilling to raise the real issues which were flying around my head, and even less willing to do what I actually wanted to: accept immediately and without hesitation. 'I can't just _invite myself _to your parents' for Christmas.'

'You're not, I'm inviting you.'

'They don't know me.'

'They'll love you. In comparison with me, you'll be a dream come true.'

I pulled a face. 'Roger, they haven't seen you in _six years_. They don't want me gatecrashing.'

'I do though.' A wave of scarlet flashed across his face as he spoke, and he continued, trying to ignore it. 'I know it's a lot to ask, but… I don't want to go alone, Cat. I… _can't _go alone. Please?'

It was the request which did it. The cry for help from deep down inside this seemingly so strong and reserved man. In all the time I'd known him, Roger had never asked for help before. He'd asked for forgiveness; that, he was good at. But asking to be rescued – that was something new and different. He wasn't running, I realised now, as he looked me steadily in the eye. And it was that, more than my own feelings and my promise to Collins, which finally made my mind up.

'You have to call them tonight and ask them,' I began listing my terms and conditions. 'And if they're reluctant in anyway, I'm not coming. And you have to give me some time to buy them something, I can't turn up empty-handed, and…' I tailed off as I took in the beam on Roger's face, a sight which had been missing in my life for so long that all my words dried up and my own mouth creased into something similar. Embarrassed, I gave a small giggle and looked down at the ground.

'Done, all done.' Roger nodded eagerly, energy suddenly flowing through his entire body. 'We can go tomorrow afternoon, it shouldn't take long, it's straight up I-87, we'd be there in about an hour, you can spend the morning shopping or whatever, but don't worry, they won't expect anything, they…'

'Roger!' I interrupted, my nervous giggle becoming an all-out laugh. 'Calm down, you haven't even called them yet!'

'I don't need to. But I will.' He nodded again, remembering my stipulations. 'I'll call them now.' As though he'd been given a new purpose in life he turned to make his way through the crowd, abandoning the whisky once and for all. At the last second, he turned back to me and gave me a smaller but no less warm smile. 'And… thank you.'

'I haven't done anything,' I reminded him awkwardly, feeling the familiar response underneath his gaze as my brain scattered in a million directions.

'Yeah, you have. Thanks.' And he turned and pushed his way towards the payphone in the corner of the café. I knew already that there would be repercussions from this, recriminations from my family and from Sam, maybe even from Mark and the others. If ever there was a time to act with my head and not whatever organ was responsible for this flood of emotions, it was now. And yet… he was so happy. I couldn't regret that.


	33. Chapter 33

**Sorry for the long delay on updating. Work has been very busy recently. It is a long old update this time though. Hope you enjoy.**

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><p>'Do you ever travel light?' Roger gazed down at the packed trunk of his car with a bemused look on his face. 'This seems… a lot.'<p>

I tried to brush off my embarrassment at the amount of stuff I'd shoved into suitcases and boxes. 'It's Christmas. And it's cold.' Secretly I knew I'd overpacked, just like always, but this trip was weighing on my mind and I didn't want to be underprepared in any way. Besides, my father's credit card had enjoyed the chance to be useful as I'd shopped my way around Manhattan earlier that day, braving the Christmas crowds in order to ensure I had everything I might need for the journey. It at least took my mind off the looks on the others' faces the previous evening when we'd revealed our holiday plans, and the conversation I'd had with Mark later as he'd walked me back to my hotel.

'Are you sure about this?'

I nodded and when Mark still seemed unconvinced, I flashed him a smile. 'Yes. I am.'

'What about your family?'

I shrugged. 'They'll cope. It isn't like getting a flight home at this short notice would be a walk in the park anyway, is it? The likelihood is that I'd be spending Christmas alone.'

'And spending it with Roger is preferable?' Mark seemed sceptical. 'With his parents?'

'Is it really that big a deal?' I asked, knowing it was and wishing Mark would take the hint and let it go. As the evening had progressed, and in spite of Roger's tangible excitement, the many reasons why this was a bad idea had caught up with me. Mark's questions weren't helping.

'I'm just concerned, Cat. After everything with you and Roger…' He shrugged. 'I don't want you to get hurt again.'

'I'm not going to. And neither is Roger,' I added, knowing how deeply Mark's love for his friend ran. Roger's disappearing act was already forgiven, if not quite forgotten, and Mark was preparing for the next issue that would be sure to come along. 'Mark, it'll be fine. You're not the only one who cares about him, you know.'

Mark's face twisted into a reluctant smile which only served to highlight how sad he'd looked since I'd returned to the city. 'I know. I just…'

'Worry,' I finished his sentence for him, and gave him a small smile of my own. 'I know. But you don't need to this time. Let me do the worrying for a few days. You need a break.'

It was something even Mark couldn't deny. 'Not much of a break with my sister's kids running round.'

'Try,' I said softly as we reached my hotel and came to a halt. 'Just try and have a good Christmas.'

'You too.' Mark raised his eyebrows and after a brief hug he was gone, leaving me with the sensation that I'd just made yet another promise I wasn't sure I could keep.

Shopping had alleviated some of the anxiety I'd felt on waking up the next morning, or at least pushed it to the back of my mind. I'd bought more clothes and toiletries than I could ever need, deriving a small kick of pleasure with each transaction that went through. I was sure that my father would cancel the credit card as soon as I telephoned to say I wouldn't be home for Christmas and so I might as well gain the benefits I could in the meantime. Admittedly, buying Roger's parents' a set of crystal wine glasses was probably going overboard, but I justified it as an essential expense; my mother would be the very first to insist upon taking a present for the hosts.

The box which was taking up the most room in Roger's trunk, however, was something else altogether. It had come as a surprise to me that I'd been looking for anything for Roger at all, but when I was still pounding the Manhattan streets almost an hour after I'd thought I couldn't possibly need or want anything else, it became clear that I was looking for something else, something special. I didn't know why; neither of us had mentioned anything we wanted and I certainly wasn't expecting to receive anything from him tomorrow morning. Some people might have said that my agreeing to go to Red Hook, Dutchess County for Christmas was a gift in itself. Those people didn't live inside my head.

The inevitability of it all hit home as I stepped inside the cluttered and almost deserted guitar shop. All around me stood various models of guitar, some gleaming new and some heavily worn, giving off the air of having been involved in some thrilling and completely bohemian event which I could only dream of. It was yet another world from the one I'd been born into, but as soon as the door closed behind me, shutting out the roar of New York, I felt a sense of calm descend over me like never before. The very rightness of the situation couldn't be argued with.

It took me a few seconds to realise I wasn't completely alone in the shop. The man behind the counter was wearing a Ramones t-shirt which blended into the shop so well that it was easy to overlook him. It was only when he leaned forward, his eyes keenly fixed on me that I registered his presence.

'Oh. Hello.' I tried to hard my startled reaction by falling back on old English manners. 'Could you help me? I'm looking for a guitar.'

The man didn't reply, raising an eyebrow at me and the stupid thing I'd said. His sole response was to gesture around at the many hundreds of guitars surrounding us.

'Uh, yes.' I gave a self-conscious giggle. 'I… don't know much about guitars.'

He looked me up and down, as much as to say that it was obvious that someone like me wouldn't know much about guitars. Then, finally, he spoke. 'It for you?'

'No.' I shook my head. 'It's for… a friend.'

'Beginner?'

'I don't know.' I was aware how stupid I sounded. 'Sorry, I know I'm not being very helpful. He used to be in a band, if that helps.'

'Anyone I know?' His interest was suddenly piqued.

'I don't know.' I shrugged. 'I've never heard him play, the band split up a while ago I think. Roger Davis?'

A slow smile spread across the man's face and he gave a chuckle. 'Oh right. Roger Davis.'

'You know him?'

'Yeah, I know Roger.' Again, he chuckled. 'So he's back is he?' I nodded. 'Where was he this time?'

'Santa Fe. Sorry, how do you know him?'

'Roger's a regular. Sells his guitar, buys a car. Sells his car, buys a guitar. I used to go to a lot of The Hookers' gigs as well.'

'The Hookers?'

'His band.' The man raised his eyebrow again. 'You said he was a friend of yours. You've never heard his stuff?' Without waiting for a reply, he continued. 'They split up a few years back now. Roger's been a bit quiet recently. Apart from that soundtrack he did. That was terrible, a crime against music. But he drops by every now and again. Is he alright?'

'I think so.' I nodded, unsure just how much this man knew about Roger and his life. Perhaps more than I did. It was only now I was stood here that I was realising just how large a part music had once played in his life. I could count on one hand the number of times I'd ever seen him with his guitar in his hand and yet it had always been around the apartment, as though it had only recently been cast aside. Collins had talked of how once upon a time it had been almost surgically attached to him. It was a side of Roger I'd simply never seen. I wanted that to change.

'I suppose he wants his guitar back now, does he?' The question took me a little by surprise.

'His guitar?'

The man rolled his eyes. 'I could have made a lot of money out of it if I'd sold it on, but I knew he'd be back, sooner or later. Figured he'd want the old girl back. Hold on a sec, I'll get her for you.'

The man vanished through a small door in the back of the shop. Left alone, I initially stayed rooted to the spot, trying to get my head around the new impressions I'd been given about Roger in the last few minutes. From being unaware that I was even intending to buy him anything, I now appeared to be buying back something he'd all but pawned earlier in the year. For a moment, I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Perhaps he'd parted with his guitar in the autumn for more than reasons than simply monetary ones. Maybe he'd wanted to put all of that behind him and start again, to stop reliving the past because it was just too painful. If anyone had a right to want to move forward, it was Roger. This could be just another huge mistake, the second one in as many days.

And then I began looking around the shop. The general clutter of guitars and accessories was one thing, but slowly I realised that the real reason that it felt so busy and cramped was that the walls were coated in posters, advertising albums and gigs. The usual suspects were everywhere, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, The Buzzcocks, The Clash. I wondered at what point things like this became clichéd and hackneyed. In amongst these titans, though, were smaller posters, less famous and printed on cheaper paper. I'd never heard of half of these bands before but that was no surprise. Some seemed little more than local bands, but for all I knew they could have been trend-setters, at least on this side of the Atlantic. One thing was for certain: I wasn't expecting to see any East 17 posters in this particular shop.

If it hadn't been for the conversation I'd just had, I'd have overlooked this poster too. It wasn't very much different from any of the hundreds of others covering the shop. It was printed on paper that must once have been white but was rapidly yellowing despite the date on it reading only six years before. The picture on it was fuzzy and for a moment I didn't recognise it. Then I did, and coupled with the headline ('The Hookers: back on the streets') I was clearly able to make out Roger's face despite the grainy image. A younger, fresher looking Roger, who looked healthy and alive. I had to catch my breath.

'Here she is.' The man came back into the shop carrying a yellow guitar carefully and reverently. 'You can tell him I've had her restrung.' As he came alongside me, he noticed me looking at the poster. 'Oh I remember that night. Amazing show.' He nodded. 'The band split up not long after that, actually. After April, you know.'

I didn't but pretended I did. 'Were they very successful?'

He half-nodded, half-shrugged. 'They could have been. They were getting quite a lot of buzz on the scene. But they weren't the first band to go the way they did and they won't be the last.' When I gave him a slightly bemused look, he pulled a face. 'Roger and his… _habit_. People always think music and drugs go hand in hand but it rarely works out well. People never learn though. Or only the hard way. Now, is he leaving you to pay for this baby or is he putting in an appearance?'

My father's credit card had received a last, fairly hefty battering, at the shop as I paid back the money Roger had practically borrowed from Sid ('Say hey to him for me') earlier in the year. It turned out he had pretty expensive tastes in guitars and in cars. Now, as we travelled north along I-87, I hoped again that I'd done the right thing in buying the Fender guitar back. Again and again the image on that poster came back to me, and I couldn't help comparing it with the man who was sat alongside me, drumming his fingers almost unconsciously on the steering wheel. Six years would change anyone. I hoped Roger hadn't changed that much.

We'd remained largely silent as we'd left Manhattan behind. I was struck by how suddenly the city seemed to melt away, leaving increasing swathes of countryside and snow-covered hills. The sense of space was almost alarming after having spent the past ten days in the suffocating air of the lower East side. For the first time in a while, I felt able to breathe properly, a sensation which had only increased since those first moments in the guitar shop earlier in the day. I tried not to dwell on the reasons for it.

After a time, the silence became less peaceful than uncomfortable. I knew how this worked by now, I knew the expected pattern. If I wanted conversation, I'd have to start it. It annoyed me less than it should have.

'So what's Red Hook like?' I asked eventually.

'Small. Old-fashioned. It's not anything particularly special.'

'But it's home?'

'I guess.' Roger caught my eye in a sidelong glance and gave a sigh, running his hand over his face. 'Sorry. I'm a bit…' He tailed off in the Davis-way; I wondered if his father would be as unforthcoming as he was.

We continued to travel in silence for a few hundred yards.

'You could talk about it.'

Roger jerked his head in my direction. 'What?' I gave him a pointed look before turning my head to gaze out of the window again. With another sigh, Roger said, 'I'm sorry.'

'You don't have to be.' A silence. 'But they're just your parents, Roger. What can be so bad about that? Even if you haven't seen them in six years,' I added, pre-empting his usual excuse. 'You're still their son. They still love you.'

He snorted. 'Yeah, until they find out.'

'Find out what?'

'Everything.' Roger slapped the steering wheel, making me jump, as we reached the end of a long tailback. 'Traffic. Fucking brilliant.'

'I don't understand. What is there to find out?' I studied his face in profile for a few seconds and wondered how it could have taken me so long to realise what was causing the tension in his jaw and the twitch in his shoulders. This was Roger, after all. With a sinking sensation, I closed my eyes, hoping I was wrong. 'They don't know, do they? About… the drugs and the…' My nerve failed me at the last minute and I tailed off, still unwilling to talk about the disease which had ripped too much away from us lately. 'Roger, _why_?'

'It didn't seem the kind of conversation to have over the phone.' He attempted a joke and pulled a face when he could see that I wasn't in the mood. 'I couldn't do it to them. They… wanted so much more for me. They thought I was going places when I left Red Hook. New York, the world… I couldn't admit that…'

'Admit what? You'd made a few mistakes, fallen in love, made a mess of things?'

'That I'd failed.' He turned his face away from mine, gazing out the driver side window as we edged forwards in the traffic. 'I couldn't tell them that.'

I'd thought my heart had been shattered enough over the last six months. I hadn't thought it could go any further. And then he'd spoken and I found myself tumbling over that cliff again, digging my nails into the palm of my hand in an attempt to hold onto the situation in some way. I silently cursed Collins for putting me in this position, before forgiving him; I'd have been here with or without the promise he'd extracted from me.

The traffic moved off again, revealing no reason for the hold-up. Roger gently eased the car forwards, gaining speed, almost as if he was trying to leave the conversation behind, along with all the rubbish he'd accumulated in his life. I thought back to the poster from that morning, the look of admiration on Sid's face as he'd talked about The Hookers and the music they'd made. I thought about Mark, on his way to spending a difficult Christmas with his loud and all-consuming family, about Joanne and Maureen already ensconced at one of the mansions on Park Avenue. And Collins. I mainly thought about Collins.

We were passing through Poughkeepsie by the time I spoke, a place which sounded like it had been made up. Roger had shown no outward sign that he was brooding over what he'd said before, but by now I didn't really need to be told how he was feeling; where Roger was concerned, it would always be obvious.

'You're not a failure, Roger,' I said finally, in a soft voice which at first I thought might be covered up by the rumbling of the car along the road. It certainly took Roger a long time to respond, until long after we'd left Poughkeepsie behind.

When he did, it was worth it.

'Thanks. I'm glad you came.'

* * *

><p>The snow in Red Hook was whiter and purer than it had been in the city, unsullied as it was from the endless Manhattan traffic. Out here, we hardly saw a car for the last ten minutes before we pulled up outside Roger's parents' house. It was quiet and peaceful, very like my own parents' house in Kent. Perhaps it was for that reason that it felt as though I'd been there before as I stepped out of the car and stared up at the glowing farmhouse. The temperature had dipped as soon as the sun had begun to sink below the horizon, and now that it was almost completely dark the wind cut through me within seconds of leaving the car. A fluttering at a downstairs' window allowed a flash of light to cut across the snowy lawn. The curtain closed as quickly as it had opened.<p>

'Here we go.' Whether Roger intended me to hear what he said was unclear, but I decided not to comment. That he was standing outside this house at all seemed quite a feat given everything I'd learnt about him; I couldn't expect him to be looking forward to the reunion as well.

The front door opened and a bigger shaft of light spilled out. A woman, younger looking than I'd expected and with hair a similar colour to Roger's, came out of it, her face stretched in an impossibly bright and friendly smile. Her eyes betrayed the truth: she was almost as worried about this meeting as her son was. She just hid it slightly better.

'I wondered what time you'd get here!' For a moment she stood uncertainly, and then her natural instincts took over. 'Come here, merry Christmas.' She wrapped her arms around Roger and I willed him to respond properly. It was stiff and awkward but finally his arms went around her too.

'Hey Mom. How are you?'

'I'm fine!' She laughed as she stepped back from the hug. 'Which you'd know, if you ever picked your phone up!' It was making light of an obvious hurt and she hastily moved on. 'And you must be Cat. Lovely to meet you.' Unexpectedly, she hugged me as well, an astonishingly violent and heartfelt embrace which I wasn't sure I really deserved. 'Welcome to our home.'

'Thank you, Mrs Davis.'

'Oh call me Lyn, please.' She laughed again, a false, nervous laugh, and stepped back towards the house. 'But don't stand out here in the cold, come in.'

'I'll just grab the bags.' Roger gestured over his shoulder, already taking a couple of steps away from the house, back towards the car and the road. I was sure it wasn't only me who could sense him trying to distance himself already, and I saw Lyn's face fall ever so slightly.

'I'll help.' I shot Roger a look which told him he wasn't going to be able to escape. It would be all too easy for him to jump straight back into the car and drive away into the night. The awkwardness of leaving me stranded with his parents for Christmas would probably never even cross his mind; startled deer often ran straight into barbed wire in their desperation to outrun whatever was pursuing them.

Lyn glanced between the two of us, her eyes showing white in the security light. 'I'll just make us some coffee. Black or white?'

'White.' I gave her a smile. 'And Roger takes black,' I added as she gave her son a hesitant look. The smile she returned was grateful but registered her upset of learning things about her own flesh and blood from somebody else. She turned back into the house, leaving me alone with Roger.

He leaned against the closed trunk of his car, his face hard and unreadable. It was as though he was having to concentrate intensely in order to keep himself from completely losing it. There was a nervous energy reverberating throughout his body which transferred itself to me. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

'Are we getting these bags in or not?' I tried to sound normal and upbeat, as though this had been the plan for Christmas 1994 all along, as though spending the holiday season with my ex-whatever-Roger-had-been's parents was completely ordinary. 'It's freezing out here!'

It took him a long time to answer but he did eventually, and it wasn't a completely discouraging response. 'Yeah, I guess.' He swung the trunk open and surveyed the many bags I'd crammed in again.

I placed a hand gently on his arm, causing him to jump in surprise. It was a small shock to me as well; it was the first real contact we'd had since I'd left in the summer. It wouldn't have been how I'd have planned it, if I'd planned it at all, but it seemed right.

'Your mum seems nice.'

He didn't quite make eye contact but the flinty set to his face mellowed a little and his mouth twitched ever so slightly into a smile. 'Yeah, she is.'

'Come on then.' I gave him what I hoped was an encouraging smile. 'We should probably go in.'

After what seemed like an endless pause, he nodded. 'Yeah, I guess.'

* * *

><p>Roger's dad was no less welcoming than his mum, but in a different way. There were no wild hugs here, no cravings for physical contact. He gave me a nod and a small smile, and greeted Roger in an almost equally as formal manner. Where Lyn was all action and anxiety to create a warm and friendly atmosphere, Michael was more reserved and I saw in the way he looked his son over that the six year absence weighed much more heavily upon him than upon his wife. Roger's own eyes naturally avoided his father's, fixing on various objects in the house and most often down at his own hands, fiddling with the coffee mug Lyn had handed him as soon as we'd walked in the door.<p>

'I'm afraid it isn't much,' Lyn was saying now as we sat down for dinner. 'But I always find the holiday season a bit much, don't you think so, Cat? All that rich food for days on end. Sometimes it can be nice to have something a bit plainer.' She gestured towards the tableful of food in front of us. 'Help yourselves.'

The food wasn't exactly what I'd have called plain, and I doubted this was something she'd just thrown together at the last minute. It was the kind of 'impromptu' meal my mother would take six weeks planning in order to claim that she'd spent next to no time cooking it. It wasn't quite the fatted calf for the prodigal son, but it was early days; the big event was tomorrow after all.

'So, Cat, what do you do?' Lyn flashed me a smile. 'And what brings you to New York?'

I avoided looking at Roger, certain he'd be unable to help me out. 'Oh I was just doing some travelling,' I said, keeping it deliberately vague. 'I've always been fascinated by New York.'

'Just like Roger.' Lyn rolled her eyes and gave that laugh again. 'I remember how obsessed he was when you were in high school. Used to beg us to let him go up there on the weekend. Do you remember that time we took you up there to see Phantom of the Opera and you almost cried when we had to come home again?'

'Mom!' Roger gave a low groan and I saw a flash of scarlet streak from his ear across his cheekbones as he blushed. 'That wasn't quite what happened.' For the first time, he glanced up from his plate to give me a look. 'Mom isn't quite remembering it right.'

I stifled a giggle of my own whilst thinking of that last conversation I'd had with Collins. Lyn was painting a picture of a very similar Roger, one who had the passion and interest to feel something beyond self-loathing. I wondered if she was aware of how his obsession with the city had turned into something so much more destructive. How did they think he'd spent the last six years, anyway?

'So what is it you do when you're at home?' Michael asked, and I realised here was a much more formidable opponent than Lyn. He fixed me with the eyes his son had inherited, scrutinising my reply carefully. There'd be no chance of bluffing my way through this one. His gaze reminded me of the head teacher at my boarding school, Mrs Jenkins. She'd always given off the air of knowing exactly what you'd done wrong, making any lies or deceits a complete waste of energy. Somehow, I felt sure Michael would see straight through any untruths I told.

And so I told the truth, wishing I'd never started lying in the first place.

'Not much, actually.' I could feel every member of the Davis family suddenly sit up and pay a little more attention to me. Regardless, I carried on, trying to maintain eye contact with Michael where possible. 'I studied Art at Oxford University but I've never really done much with it. My family are quite well-off. Not that that's an excuse,' I added. 'I just mean… there's never been much of a need for me to get a job. I know that's not a good thing.'

Michael appraised me carefully before giving a brief nod. In that small movement, I felt as though I'd been assessed and if he couldn't agree with how I lived my life, he at least appreciated my honesty. I'd passed whatever test he'd laid down in front of me.

'And how's the band?' Lyn turned the spotlight back onto Roger, the real star of this evening's performance. 'Any more news on a record contract? The last time we saw you, you were saying…'

'The band split up.' Roger cut her off, his eyes back on his food which, now I looked, he'd hardly touched but had instead pushed around his plate half-heartedly. 'A while back now. We… had some differences.'

'Oh.' There seemed little else Lyn could say to that.

Before anyone else could speak, Roger put his knife and fork down with a clatter and pushed his chair back from the table. 'Excuse me. I need some fresh air.' He didn't wait for a protest as he stalked out of the room. We heard the back door banging behind him moments later.

Lyn's face could no longer hide her hurt no matter how hard she tried. Even as she mustered up a smile and offered me more mashed potato, her lip trembled and her eyes clouded over with tears. An intense anger coursed through my body on behalf of this woman and I felt guilty for bringing Roger back here. Some Christmas this would be.

After a few minutes, Lyn said, 'Maybe I should…' and made to stand up.

'Leave him.' Michael spoke quietly but firmly. He put a hand over his wife's. 'There's no point letting your dinner get cold.'

A few months ago I might have considered his words cold themselves, harsh and hard-hearted. This was their son, who they hadn't seen for six years. That they'd just let him wander off into a frigid December night would have seemed cruel. But now I knew better. Now, I knew Roger, and I knew exactly how he could make anything less than punching his lights out in frustration a kindness. It had been six years since he'd set foot in this house, six years since he'd agreed to meet these people even for one day. Here they'd been, all this time, living for his next phone call. And he'd walked out of their company only hours after arriving here tonight. The anger I'd felt when Mark had told us about Collins's parents reappeared, redirected this time at Roger, for not appreciating what he had. That I could just as easily have attacked myself for the same thing was something I chose not to think about until later.

Now, the fury in my blood drove me into action. I picked up my napkin from my lap and dabbed my mouth lightly before pushing my chair back. 'Sorry, would it be alright if I…?' I tailed off, smiling pleasantly and gesturing towards where Roger had crashed out of the house.

Lyn nodded her reluctant agreement. 'Of course. Your coat's underneath the stairs.'

'Thank you. And thank you for the meal, it was wonderful.' The words, however true, sounded hollow in light of Roger's behaviour, and I was grateful to escape into the hallway, where I pulled my coat on and headed outside through the kitchen.

It was colder than ever outside and, as old habits die hard, my first thought was that Roger had left his own coat hung up next to mine. Luckily, upon finding him leaning against the barn, out of the biting wind, my concern was once again overtaken by my irritation. The cigarette clamped to his lips helped.

'I thought you wanted fresh air.'

He didn't reply.

'Roger, that was really rude. Your mum was only asking…'

'And I was only saying.' The tone was that of a sulky teenager, possibly the one who had almost cried on being told he couldn't stay in New York.

'You didn't have to say it like that.' I folded my arms defiantly, certain of my moral high-ground on this matter. 'You've really upset her.'

'Yeah, well, I'm good at that.' The end of his cigarette flickered in the darkness as he took a drag on it.

'And it was really embarrassing,' I continued, warming to my theme. The chance to openly berate Roger for something didn't come along often. 'I was embarrassed sitting in there just now.'

'You didn't have to come.'

'You invited me!' My voice rose to an unattractive pitch as I angrily reminded him of how he'd all but begged me to come with him. 'You wanted me to come, you said you couldn't come alone. Maybe you shouldn't have come at all.'

'I did suggest that at the time!' he snapped back. 'If you remember?' He flicked the ash off the end of the cigarette and took another drag on it.

'So what are you going to do now?' I demanded, tiredness and the last few weeks catching up with me and making me more vocal than I would normally be. If this was Sam in front of me, Sam behaving like a spoilt child, I'd shrug it off and leave him to it. I certainly wouldn't be rocking the boat in this manner. 'Are you going to run away like usual?'

'What?'

'You know, like you normally do.' I carried on, knowing even as my mouth moved that I was saying too much. 'You run away from everything, Roger. Mimi, Collins… me.' My voice faltered finally as I realised exactly what I'd said.

There was what felt like the longest pause I'd ever experienced. The total silence of the countryside crept between us, leaving my words hanging in mid-air. The cigarette flickered where it had stopped, halfway to his mouth.

'I ran away?' Roger spoke in a soft tone but there was an edge to it. '_I _ran away from _you_? What the fuck were you doing?'

'I'm sorry?'

'What were you doing if you weren't running away?' He gesticulated with the cigarette. 'I turned around and you'd _gone_, it was like you'd never even been here. All those weeks we'd spent together and then when I really needed you…'

'_You_ really needed _me?'_ I was unable to prevent myself from interrupting him. 'What about _me_, Roger, how did you think I felt? I've never been so scared and frightened and miserable in my life and where were you? Shoving that junk into yourself, happy as could be.'

'You think I was _happy?_' Roger shot back. 'You think heroin is _fun_? I hated it, Cat, I hated every second of it.'

'Then why did you do it?'

'Because I was scared!' It was like an explosion. 'Fuck, Cat! I was… I was terrified.' His voice broke on the final word.

'What do you mean?'

When he spoke again, his words were carefully measured. 'I've watched this illness take everybody away from me. April. Angel. Mimi. Collins. I've lived through it every day, I've waited for the test results every six months, wondering if this is the day I'll be given my death sentence. And you really think I could watch that all happen to you? I ran away because I couldn't bear it, Cat. I couldn't bear what I might have done to you.'

In the silence that followed I became aware of Roger's laboured breathing, the way he had to catch his breath every now and again as the true misery he'd carried around with him all this time spilled out of him. It wasn't a good justification of his behaviour towards me, it didn't excuse him from how he'd treated me that summer. But it was honest; that was something new.

'I don't blame you for what happened,' I said eventually, trying to absolve him of any guilt on that front.

'I do though.'

'I knew what I was getting into,' I reminded him and in a fit of charity, I added, 'And, Roger… I wouldn't do anything differently. If I had the chance, if I could do it all over again, I mean. I'd still…' Tailing off, I allowed him to draw his own conclusions over what I was saying. I wasn't too sure what I was saying myself.

The cigarette dropped to the floor and I heard him grind it out. With a heavy sigh, he slumped back against the barn. 'I don't know why. I fuck everything up, Cat. I'm fucking this up right now.'

Hesitantly, I moved alongside him, leaning against the barn wall. 'You must be freezing.' At this closer distance, I could see a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth upwards as he glanced at me. He shook his head wordlessly. 'What's wrong?'

'You.'

'Me?'

'No, not you, just…' He tailed off and ran a hand over his face, the smile staying in place as he looked back at me. 'Just… when are you going to give up on me?'

My flippant response elicited a small snort from him. 'I don't have much choice, you're my ride back to New York.' Unwilling to answer him honestly, I instead gave him a nudge. 'Come on. We should go back in. You really must be freezing.'


	34. Chapter 34

**Please do review if you are still reading and enjoying :) I feel like I've lost people's interest!**

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><p>The evening passed without further mishap, although the atmosphere in the house was, understandably, less than comfortable. Lyn continued to make anxious conversation, insisting upon us sampling a seemingly never-ending supply of sweet festive treats. If possible, Michael became even more solemn and sceptical, and I was grateful when the clock hands reached a suitable time for bed. Even the slightly draughty spare bedroom I'd been shown into was preferable to the frankly icy conditions downstairs.<p>

Long car journeys had always exhausted me and so I fell asleep almost as soon as I got in between the numerous blankets Lyn had provided me with. It was a blessing, as I knew that the thoughts that were racing through my head would otherwise have kept me awake all night. I could really manage without an all-nighter in the circumstances.

If possible, it was even colder in my room the next morning than it had been the night before, and I was reluctant to get out of bed even when it became clear that everybody else in the Davis household had got up and showered long ago. The pipes in the house banged furiously as each member of the family moved through the bathroom, and before long I could hear the slamming of doors; I hoped it was simply a case of Davis being synonymous with loud, rather than an early morning row between father and son.

Finally I had no choice but to dash across the landing and wash in the barely lukewarm water, before dashing back to my room and wriggling into the almost-too-lovely red velvet dress I'd bought the day before. Christmas Day in my house had always been an occasion to dress up and it was only now that I was surveying myself in the slightly grubby full length mirror that I wondered if I'd over done it.

It became instantly clear that I had as I descended the stairs and both Roger and Lyn immediately turned to look up at me, their jeans and practically-warm jumpers making my cheeks burn in embarrassment.

'Well, it's nice to see somebody making an effort,' Lyn greeted me with a less-strained smile than the day before. 'Merry Christmas. Did you sleep well?'

'Yes thank you. Merry Christmas.' I nodded and hoped we could move on from what I was wearing quickly. 'Would you like any help with anything?'

'No, of course not!' Lyn shook her head emphatically. 'You're a guest and I wouldn't want you to get anything down that dress.' So much for changing the subject. 'What would like for breakfast? We've got porridge, toast, pancakes, cornflakes, frosted flakes, fruit, yoghurt…'

'Mom!' Roger broke in, and I was heartened to hear the hint of a chuckle in his voice. 'At least let her get down the stairs!'

Roger's chuckle became Lyn's full laugh. 'Well if it was left to you she'd only be having coffee! I don't think he's eaten breakfast since he was in junior high, Cat. It's nice to know that some things don't change.' She gestured towards the kitchen. 'Help yourself to whatever you want. Roger will show you where everything is. I'm going to check that Michael doesn't need any help out in the barn.' Pulling on a rather moth-eaten coat, she headed outside into the startlingly bright snowy world.

'The animals,' Roger explained as I gave him a quizzical look. 'No rest for the wicked, and all of that.'

In the midst of everything, I'd somehow forgotten that this was a real farm and not some elaborate film set. It was so very much what I'd expected from a New England farmhouse that I couldn't quite believe it was real. Rather like much of what had happened since I'd set foot in New York that summer.

Anxious not to fall prey to those memories just now, I pasted a smile upon my face. 'So… am I getting breakfast or not?'

It took Roger several seconds of staring at me before he responded. It wasn't an unpleasant stare, but the thoughts it spoke of were unsettling enough on their own. I was grateful when he shook himself and replied.

'Yeah, sure. Come on.' He hesitated again and I saw him swallow several times in quick succession. Then he said, in a rush, like the words wouldn't be controlled and he had to say them or die, 'You look beautiful.'

The blush shot across my cheeks again and I ducked my head to try and hide it. 'Thank you.' I hoped he'd get the hint better than his mother had.

'Oh right. Breakfast.' He moved towards the door without any further delay. 'Come on. Mom's bought enough to feed an army.'

'So is everything… alright?' I voiced my concerns as I followed him into the kitchen. After last night's outburst and tension, it seemed impossible that the new day had erased all the issues between Roger and his parents. Yet everything had seemed so normal between Lyn and him when I'd come down that morning, so like what I'd always thought a normal family would be like. If that was even a shadow of the relationship Roger had had with his parents before he moved to New York, I found it hard to believe he could throw it away so carelessly.

He gave his usual non-committal answer, shrugging as he made a fresh pot of coffee.

'You do know that's not a real answer?' I challenged him, but gave him an encouraging if exasperated smile when he looked at me. 'Roger, come on. Have you apologised for last night yet?'

'For what?' When I gave him a pointed look, he shook his head. 'They don't want to hear it, Cat.'

'Maybe if you explained to them…'

'Explained what? That I'm an AIDS-riddled junkie with serious relationship problems? I'm sure that'll make it all better.' My silence must have spoken volumes as he immediately ran a hand over his face and turned away. 'Sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that came out wrong.'

The sarcastic humour which only surfaced when Roger was around made another appearance. 'I think it was quite accurate actually.' Relenting a little, I added, 'I'm just saying that maybe you should say something.'

There was a long pause before he spoke again. I wondered what arguments he was dreaming up, whether the fact it had been _six years_ could play a part in this particular conversation. When he still didn't say anything, I wondered if I'd won, if he knew I was right.

'So what do you fancy for breakfast? I make amazing pancakes.'

I fought against exploding, my promise to Collins just about controlling my irritation with him. It was Christmas. Be nice. 'Pancakes would be lovely.'

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><p>The pancakes were indeed amazing, fluffy and light and yet deeply satisfying all at once. Roger watched eagerly as I sampled them and the smile he gave me when I pronounced them the best pancakes I'd ever had filled me with a warmth that mere food never could. It was a feeling which stayed with me throughout that strangest of Christmas Days.<p>

Roger's parents returned to the house after an hour or so, shaking snow off of their boots and reaching instantly for a coffee to warm themselves. Michael greeted me with a decidedly un-festive 'Merry Christmas,' which I could have taken offence at if he hadn't completely ignored his son in the process. Roger's smile, which had been so much more evident in the hour we'd been alone together, disappeared as soon he was sharing the space with his father, something which nobody could ignore, least of all Lyn.

'Shall we exchange presents?' she suggested now, looking between the three of us, a determinedly cheerful smile on her own face. 'Lunch won't be for a while yet.'

Doing something was far preferable to doing nothing, and yet as we sat down in the living room at the back of the house, I was struck by how very quiet it was. Christmas at home had always involved family get-togethers and jostling for space on the sofa. I remembered hardly being able to hear myself think on many occasions as batteries were sought and found for whatever gadgets my younger cousins had been given, and hilarity broke out over the novelty socks an uncle had received. Sitting here, with just three other people, felt wrong, and I was only too aware of how nearly it had been only Lyn and Michael here this Christmas. This house was too big for the family they'd become.

'Oh Cat, you really shouldn't have!' Lyn exclaimed for at least the fourth time now as she opened the wine glasses I'd handed to her. 'Look, Michael, aren't they beautiful? But they must have cost a fortune! Honestly, Cat, you shouldn't have!'

'I wanted to,' I said. 'Thank you for letting me come to spend Christmas with you.'

'Oh, don't be silly, you're welcome.' Lyn suddenly fixed me with a gaze almost as piercing as her son's could be. 'Thank you for coming.' There was a pause, in which it was clear that she was thanking me for far more than my sharing the holiday season with them. Somehow, she knew that Roger would never have come alone. It was a relief when she spoke again, even if the spotlight remained firmly upon me. 'It makes what we've got you seem rather small in comparison, though.'

Now it was my turn to protest as she handed me a small box which, when I opened it, revealed a pretty silver chain with a simple heart locket on it. I knew without touching it that it cost nowhere near as much as the jewellery that Sam had showered upon me for the past few years, but it instantly meant more to me. This necklace spoke of their sheer gratitude at bringing their son home, if only for a few days. It was a necklace that I'd keep for the rest of my life.

I was relieved to have the attention shift away from me as Lyn handed Roger his presents. They were small and strangely impersonal, the product of six years' separation: a wallet, a watch, some socks and a jumper. Roger received each of them with good grace, giving each much more attention than it really warranted, immediately moving the meagre contents of his own wallet into the new one. It was clear he was making a real effort with his parents today, keen not to let it descend into the kind of scene I'd witnessed the previous evening. The fact he'd remembered to buy both of his parents a gift showed that he hadn't intended his visit home to begin in quite that way anyway.

Finally, the floor was clear of wrapping paper and the only gift still remaining was the overlarge box which Sid had finally managed to find for me yesterday morning. Roger eyed it suspiciously as I nudged it towards him along the floor.

'What is it?'

'It's supposed to be a surprise.' I rolled my eyes, trying to make my voice sound light-hearted, but I knew my apprehension was audible to everybody in the room. When he still looked between it and me, I added, 'Just open it.'

The sound of cardboard and tape being ripped was too loud in the by-now almost silent room. It wasn't the way I'd imagined the moment being, having pictured a typically chaotic Christmas at home in England. With everyone's attention focussed on the box, I hoped that I hadn't made a huge mistake.

For several seconds after opening the box, Roger simply stared down into it, his face blank. After a time, he lifted his eyes slowly to meet mine, and in them I could see that I'd done the right thing. The anger and hurt I'd worried about wasn't there. Instead, he simply looked amazed.

'But this is…' He tailed off, looking back down at the guitar as if it might have metamorphosed whilst he was looking away. 'How did you…?'

'Sid said to say "hey".' I made a poor attempt at mimicking the man's accent which didn't raise a smile on Roger's face.

Lyn spoke for the first time in several minutes. 'What is it?'

'It's my old Fender Telecaster,' Roger said, eventually, finally picking the guitar out of the box and lifting it onto his lap. 'But I don't understand. How did you know…?'

'I didn't.' I shrugged, a blush rising up on my cheeks as he looked to me for an explanation I just couldn't give. 'It was an accident, I just sort of… stumbled into Sid's shop and…' Shrugging again, I added, 'Is it okay?'

It took Roger several seconds to reply as he dragged his attention away from the guitar. When he finally did, he looked at and I could see the faintest shimmer in his eyes, a sight I'd never seen before. 'Yeah, it's…. amazing, Cat. But it must have cost a fortune…'

'It doesn't matter.'

'I haven't got you anything…'

'It doesn't matter,' I repeated, and I realised that I meant it. Because, seeing him now, cradling the guitar in his arms and looking down at it with a mixture of awe and wonder, I finally saw the Roger Collins had always described to me. It was worth more than anything else he could have given me.

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><p>Lyn's Christmas dinner was everything I'd expected it to be from the meal she'd produced the evening before: delicious, rich and plentiful. It seemed as though she'd cooked for the kind of gathering I could imagine happening at my parents' house in Kent, and the four of us barely made a dent in the super-sized turkey in the centre of the table. Even so, I sat back at the end of the meal with a painfully full stomach.<p>

'That was amazing,' I said as Lyn stood up to start clearing the table. 'Honestly, Mrs Davis -' she shot me a look '- Lyn… that was wonderful. Thank you.'

'You're welcome. Now, would anyone like a coffee?'

'I don't think I could even fit that in,' Roger declared. 'Mom, leave the dishes. I can do them.'

'Don't be silly, you're a…' Lyn tailed off, her sentence unfinished but causing Roger's eyebrows to rise anyway. 'I mean, why don't you show Cat around the farm? It's a beautiful day out there, you should enjoy it.' She gestured to the mountain of washing up to be done. 'This won't take long.'

'I'll help,' I said. 'Honestly, Lyn, I can't let you do the cooking and the washing up.' My eagerness to do household chores wasn't purely driven by my gratitude for the meal we'd just enjoyed; I wasn't that nice. The fact was that the day may have been beautiful, but it was also cold and snow was still lying on the ground. I hadn't avoided my family's annual trips to the Alps for the past ten years just to traipse around a frozen farmyard on Christmas Day. There was enough washing up here to last until the sun went down.

'Cat's pretty good at dishes,' Roger put in now, flashing me a quick grin full of memories of how the washing up had always been my chore after he'd cooked the dinner in the summer. 'Mom, go and sit down. Please.'

It took Lyn several more minutes persuading before she finally relinquished the dishcloth and retired to the living room, followed by a much-more taciturn Michael. He'd barely spoken a word over dinner, perhaps thinking it better not to voice his opinion on this day of all days. The tension between Lyn and Roger had dissipated somewhat since the previous evening, more through Roger finally managing to gain control over his temper than anything else. His unease in the presence of his father, however, remained, and biased as I was, I couldn't blame him. There was something about Michael which put me on edge as well.

Left alone in the kitchen, I turned away from Roger and surveyed the scale of the project we'd undertaken. It would take hours. A quick check proved to me that there was no dishwasher – no escape from the task at hand.

'Do you want to wash or dry?'

'Huh?'

I glanced at where Roger was staring out of the window, clearly not having listened to what I'd just said. 'I said, do you want to wash or dry? The dishes?' I gestured around the kitchen. 'The reason we're out here and not slumped on a sofa sleeping off one the biggest meals I've ever had in my life?'

'Oh yeah. Right.' He dragged his eyes away from the window briefly. 'Whatever, I don't mind. You choose.'

'Really? You hate washing up.'

'Well, whatever, does it matter?' I winced, trying not to let his sudden anger hit me too hard and waiting for the inevitable apology. 'Sorry. Sorry, Cat, I'm…'

'Sorry?' I suggested, a smile spreading across my face despite my irritation with him. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing.' He folded his arms in a time-worn gesture, tucking his hands away in an attempt to keep them still and out of trouble.

'And really?' I raised my eyebrows. I knew him, knew him too well. And he knew it.

With a sigh he turned back to the window. 'I just...' The words ran out again, in the way they only ever did in Roger's mouth.

Perhaps I should have been more annoyed with him. Perhaps I should have demanded he finish his sentence, that he stop putting the responsibility upon me. If I was feeling especially petty perhaps I should have pointed out that he'd invited me here, that it was his parents' house, that he was the elder of us. But there didn't seem much point anymore. Roger was Roger. It was an inescapable truth.

'Do you want to go for a walk?'

His eyes flew to mine. 'But you hate the snow.'

He'd remembered. That one throwaway line all those months ago, on a night when so much else had been said, and he'd remembered. It seemed he could still surprise me.

Smiling, I nodded. 'Yes, I know. But do you want to go for a walk?' When he responded with a slow nod, I put down the dishcloth in my hand. 'I'll just grab a jacket.'

Unsurprisingly, it was cold outside, and I instantly thrust my hands inside my coat pockets; even with my gloves on my fingers were tingling. Somebody, presumably Michael, had dug several trenches through the snow leading out of the little garden attached to the back of the Davises' house. One led towards the barn we'd been leaning against the previous evening, whilst another led out of the gate at the end of the garden and up a hill. Roger, pulling his cigarettes out and lighting one, followed the latter trench and I fell into step behind him.

Despite myself, I couldn't help agreeing with Lyn's assertion that it was a beautiful day. There was an intense calm over the whole area as we left the garden and headed up the hill. The trench skirted the edge of a fenced field and as we reached the peak of the hill, the world opened up beneath our feet, revealing acre after acre of seemingly unspoiled and even snow. From here it was possible to believe that there was nothing else beyond this place in time and space. I wasn't sure if it was the weather or the day or simply this farmhouse, nestled in amongst all this land, but I let out a deep breath that I'd barely been aware I'd been holding.

Roger gave a lopsided grin as he glanced across at me. 'That sounded painful.'

I didn't reply, at least not until he dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and ground it out. 'You're not just going to leave that there are you? Roger!' I dropped to the ground, completely forgetting the snow in my haste to tidy up after him. My knees were soaked when I stood up again and I groaned as I tried to dust it off.

'What was that about?'

I shrugged. 'I just didn't want to spoil things.'

'You don't even like snow.' He regarded me with amusement.

'I'm not on about the snow. I'm surprised you even remember that anyway.'

'It's only cause it's so weird.' When I threw him a questioning look he continued. 'Well, everybody loves snow.'

'So that means I have to?' I raised an eyebrow. 'I'm supposed to like something just because everyone else does?' I turned the cigarette butt over in my fingers pointedly.

He ducked his head as we began the descent down the other side of the hill. Despite the casual way he'd shoved his hands inside his jeans pockets, I could tell my words had hit home. This smoking thing was getting a bit old.

'So why don't you like it then?' The question came several minutes after we'd last spoken. It took me a couple of moments to remember what we were talking about.

'I don't know. It's cold.' It was something I'd never really given much thought to, not wanting to dwell on something I found so irritating. 'It's cold and it's wet, and it ruins everything. Everything just stops when it snows, it's frustrating.' Warming to my theme, I continued, 'And everybody becomes so childish in the snow, it's like people forget how old they are and that they're supposed to be mature and suddenly they're running around throwing snowballs and behaving like-' I let out a screech as a lump of snow hit me square in the face. For a moment all I was aware of was being blinded by the impact and then of the bone-aching way the cold set into my cheeks. Only when I could see again did it dawn on me that such an assault could have come from only one direction.

Roger stood, the remains of his snowball melting on his bare fingers. The remnants of a mischievous smile were on his face but there was the growing realisation in his eyes that what he'd done wasn't much fun for me. Now he pulled a small face.

'Are you… okay?'

'You shouldn't have done that.' My voice was calm and low.

'Did I hurt you?' When I didn't reply, Roger's voice became more high-pitched with anxiety. 'Cat?'

'You shouldn't have done that,' I repeated, and then, in one quick movement, reached down to gather a handful of snow. There wasn't time to form it into the kind of solid ball Roger had launched at my face and so it scattered into the air as I threw it towards him. A shower of snow cascaded over him, less painful than his had been but no less effective at soaking him.

'Hey!' Roger exclaimed, and then his face broke into a broad grin unlike any I'd seen since he'd returned to New York that weekend. It caught me off-guard and so his next, less well-formed, snowball slammed straight into my chest.

That was his last chance though, and he knew it. In a mixture of shouts and screams, we made our way back over the hill. To our right, the field erupted into a herd of snow-encrusted sheep who scattered in various directions, bleating at their interrupted slumber. We tumbled down the slope, accompanied by several badly-aimed snowballs which glanced off their intended targets and exploded back into powder. Despite this, we were both soaked by the time I wrenched the door to the barn open and dived inside hoping to avoid the handful of snow that Roger was brandishing menacingly.

'No!' I half-yelped, half-giggled as I backed away from him. 'Please, Roger, no!' I put my hands on my knees as I tried to catch my breath. 'Come on, truce!' Holding my hands out to him, I demonstrated that I had no return missile. 'Please!'

Roger slowly let the lump of snow in his hand fall to the floor and rubbed his hands on his jeans. His knuckles were red and wet, and I was glad for my own gloves which I peeled off now, shaking the excess snow off of them. My tights were soaked and not for the first time that day I regretted wearing the velvet dress. I certainly hadn't dressed for a snowball fight and yet… yet this was easily the happiest I'd felt in weeks.

'So,' Roger said at length, his own breath still slightly ragged, 'do you still hate snow?'

'Loathe it,' I replied, with a smile. 'How about you?'

'Love it.' He knocked the snow off his boots. 'Did your dad never teach you to throw properly?'

I poked my tongue out at him. 'I got you wet enough.' Running a hand through my damp hair, I pulled a face. 'I'll have to wash my hair now.' Already it was springing up into unruly curls and I tugged at it miserably. It wasn't exactly how I'd pictured myself looking on Christmas Day.

'Leave it. It looks nice.' The compliment was unexpected and it seemed it took Roger as much by surprise as it did me as he almost immediately turned away and walked further into the barn. He left me with little choice but to follow him.

The barn had that animal smell which reminded me of day-trips to the zoo. Wisps of straw rustled under our feet as we moved through the gloomy interior, what little light still remaining outside being blocked by the grimy windows lining the sides of the barn. It was with a sharp intake of breath that I stepped out into the brighter far end of the barn and came almost nose to nose with a stocky black horse. The squeal that I let out was immediately mirrored by it.

'Hey!' Roger ducked under the narrow rail separating the horse's stall from the rest of the barn and put his hand around its nose. 'Steady.' As if by magic, the horse stopped rolling its eyes and let out a few misty snorts before standing quietly again. 'Steady, girl. Cat didn't mean to scare you.'

'Sorry.' I half-covered my mouth as if I was afraid that I'd let out a similar sound again. In a whisper I repeated, 'Sorry. I just didn't expect it.'

Roger didn't reply for a time as he fussed with the horse's somewhat straggly mane, rearranging it and pulling strands of hay out. The horse had forgotten its upset and seemed to be enjoying the attention.

Finally, Roger spoke. 'Cat, meet Delilah.'

'I'm… charmed.' I eyed the horse a little warily.

Roger raised an eyebrow. 'You okay?'

'Yes. Of course.' I nodded and Delilah jerked her head back again, her enormous feet almost trampling on Roger. I fought against letting out another squeak as he caught her and calmed her again, his large hands tracing firm circles on her shoulder. 'Sorry.'

'It's not you. She's just a nervous thing.' He patted her neck as the horse turned back to her haynet.

Trying to stay as still and calm as possible, I said, 'She seems quite happy now. You've got a way with her.'

'Well she is mine.'

'Yours?' I put my hand over my mouth as Delilah stomped her feet again and blew steam in my direction, for all the world looking more like a dragon than a horse. 'Sorry!'

'It's okay.' Roger grabbed hold of the horse's headcollar. 'She's just being difficult. Give it up, girl, come on!' He tugged her head firmly and the horse seemed to realise she was beaten as she nibbled on his jacket. 'Oh, now you want to be friends?'

'What do you mean, she's yours?' I asked now, leaning on the rail tentatively. Delilah eyed me suspiciously but clearly Roger's jacket was far more interesting than this stranger, whoever she was.

'What I said.' Roger dragged his eyes away from her to meet my curious gaze. Realising I needed more information than that, he sighed. 'My parents bought me her a few years ago.'

'They bought you a horse?'

'And your parents didn't?' He seemed surprised. 'I thought someone like you…'

'Someone like me?'

'Well, you know…' He scratched his ear awkwardly, clearly aware he'd stumbled into a blind alley. 'I just meant… well… people like you… oh come on, people like you are practically _born_ on horses, aren't you?'

It was a misconception I'd come across many times in my life: posh accent must equal a hunt-going horse fiend. I'd been surrounded by that kind of girl my whole time at boarding school and beyond, and yet remained firmly untouched by the pony bug. Somehow the need to own a string of polo ponies had bypassed our family, and even now the most life the stable block attached to our house in Kent saw was one or other of the Labs searching for a lost ball.

Now it was time to shatter someone else's illusion. 'Actually, I've never ridden a horse in my life.' Even as Roger seemed about to demand an explanation, I pushed on, rather rudely interrupting him. 'But this isn't about me.'

He took the hint, but turned back to look over the horse – _his _horse – as he continued. 'My parents bought me her for my seventeenth birthday.' Smiling at the memory, he added a little sarcastically, 'Just what a seventeen-year-old guy wants.'

Delilah stretched out her neck to sniff at me and I did my best to hold still and not upset her. The sheer size of her was daunting and I was reminded exactly why I'd never pressurised my parents into purchasing a similar gift. 'So you didn't ask for her?'

'Nah. Not exactly.' He pulled at the horse's ears, unable to hide the obvious affection he felt for her. 'I mean, I didn't ask for anything else either. I wasn't really too bothered.' With a smile, he added, 'You should have seen their face when they showed her to me. Mom was bursting with excitement and Dad was… well, Dad seemed happy.'

'What made them buy her?'

'I don't know.' He shrugged. 'It wasn't unheard of around here but… it's not like I'd ever shown much interest. I think they wanted to give me a reason to stay.' He leaned against the side of the stall as Delilah continued to nose at me. 'She was only two when Dad bought her and they thought she'd be a nice project for me. One which would keep me busy and out of trouble.'

'She worked wonders then,' I remarked wryly, venturing to stroke the horse's nose and finding her surprisingly open to being petted. 'Exactly how soon after your birthday did you move to New York?'

'Quite a while! I was around for a year or more.' He pouted as he defended himself and I wrenched my gaze away from those lips. After a few moments pause, during which time his horse had lost interest in both of us and gone back to nibbling on her hay, he spoke again. 'But you're right. It didn't quite work out how my parents planned it.'

'They didn't want you to go?'

He snorted and shook his head. 'Not at all. They didn't say as much, but I knew.'

'And you still went?'

'I was eighteen. Of course I went.' I rewarded him with a small smile. 'Hanging around here, working on the farm… it was okay, but it wasn't what I wanted to be doing.'

'What did you want?'

He shrugged. 'The usual. Fame. Fortune. A Playboy model in my bed. Actually, you can kind of see why my parents were so against it, can't you? What?' he asked, as I shook my head at him. 'What have I said?'

'Do you ever take anything seriously? I asked you a straightforward question and you answer with that?'

He shrugged again. 'I don't know. What did you want me to say?'

'Something true. Is it that hard?'

'So you want me to say what? That I wanted to be in a band, a successful band? That I wanted to make music that people loved? It didn't happen, did it, so what's the use in talking about it now?' The words were delivered in a low monotone as he tried to pretend that it all didn't matter. Just like he always did. Yet somehow, underneath it all, I could hear that eighteen-year-old who'd left this farm behind for the bright lights of New York City. And I could hear the twenty-four-year-old he'd been when it had all fallen apart, leaving him dangling and unsure over what to do next. He'd been left suspended for the last six years. Maybe it was time he started moving again.

'Maybe… maybe it's enough that you tried.' I felt my words stick as he raised his eyes to look at me, and tried to speak through it. 'Lots of people… don't fulfil their dreams, Roger. It's not… it's not _failure_, it's just… not meant to be. At least you tried. And Delilah still loves you even if you did leave her behind.' I gestured to where the mare was once again nuzzling him.

He smiled and rubbed her nose. 'Yeah. I came out to see her this morning. I didn't expect her to recognise me to be honest. It's been a long time.'

'That's women for you. Loyal.' My eyes slid away from his again as I began to become aware that this wasn't just Delilah we were talking about anymore. 'What made you leave her behind?'

'You mean, why wasn't she enough to stay?' he clarified, and I think he knew as well I did that this conversation was about more than a horse. 'I don't know. I was probably scared. Scared that if I stayed I'd be missing something or that I'd… I don't know, mess it all up. The usual reasons. I should probably apologise, shouldn't I?'

'I don't know. It looks like she's forgiven you already.'

We remained in a peaceful silence for several minutes, the only sound Delilah's chewing and occasional snorts. Then Roger spoke again.

'I'm going to tell my parents.' I raised my eyebrows and he explained. 'Everything. About… New York and… the drugs and… everything. I'm tired of running. Maybe it's time to stop. And if it all goes wrong,' he added, trying to inject some light-hearted humour into the situation, 'I can always go AWOL for another six years.'

I smiled. 'Good to know you've got a back-up plan. When are you going to tell them?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Do you want me there?' The offer came without any hesitation on my part and told me more about my feelings for Roger than I wanted to know. I wasn't sure how I could ever help to soften the multiple blows heading towards his parents, but it seemed the right thing to say.

But now Roger shook his head. 'No. I need to do this by myself. You've done enough already.'

'I haven't done anything.'

'You got me here. That's pretty big.' He smiled at me. 'I'll tell them by myself. But… thanks, Cat. For everything.' He gave Delilah one last pat. 'We should probably get back in before it gets any colder. Come on. We've still got those dishes to do.'


	35. Chapter 35

**Thanks for your continued interest and patience with Roger - he's getting his act together finally...**

* * *

><p>Roger's insistence on doing this alone had seemed like a blessing at first. Whilst I knew that I'd have stood by him, even held his hand if it would have made the telling easier, at the same time I couldn't help thinking how this would change Michael and Lyn's lives forever. I remembered how I'd felt when I'd found out, how the world had seemed to tilt ever so slightly further on its axis. It had felt as though I'd opened a door I could never shut again, a Pandora's Box of revelations I'd never really wanted to know. I'd only known Roger a few weeks at the time; I wasn't sure I wanted or needed to see his parents' lives shatter in the same way.<p>

And yet now that it came down to it, waiting on the opposite side of the house whilst Roger broke the news to Lyn and Michael in the living room was harder than I could have imagined. The book I'd brought down from my room to pass the time was open in my hands and my eyes had been fixed on the same page for the last twenty minutes, ever since the living room door had closed behind Roger as he'd steeled himself for the revelations to come. Since then, I'd jumped at every noise in the house and, considering a mild thaw had set in and the snow was falling off the roof in chunks, there were a lot of noises. It didn't make for a relaxing time.

For all I knew about Roger, I had no idea how he was going to broach the subject with his parents. I hoped he wouldn't go for the direct and blunt approach, but I had no way of knowing. Perhaps it was a blessing for both of us that I'd found out about the drugs and the HIV and Roger's whole messed-up life with the minimum of input from him. I was fairly certain that Collins and Mark were better at breaking bad news than their roommate.

And so time wore on, with no significant noises drifting across the hallway. I didn't know if this was a good thing or not. There were no raised voices which meant that he hadn't got into a fight at least. That was probably a positive, and yet the eerie silence wasn't that comforting either. Perhaps it would have been easier to have been in the room and at least aware of what was going on. Twenty minutes seemed a very long time.

Half an hour after the door had closed it opened again. Trying to stay cool, I remained where I was. Footsteps went down the hall towards the front door and I heard it slam shut. Glancing out the window, I saw Roger disappearing down the driveway. For a moment, my heart skipped a beat as I pictured him getting into his car and driving away, his foot pressed down on the accelerator recklessly, the car spinning out of control, the blood…

The mental image faded away as he walked past the car and continued on down the driveway. There was no way of telling from his back what had driven him to leave the house; his shoulders were hunched over as ever and his hands were buried in his pockets. He'd clearly had time to grab his jacket on the way out suggesting it hadn't been a desperate escape from a family row. By the time I'd thought to head out after him to find out for sure, he'd disappeared from view.

For several minutes, I remained where I was, staring out of the window at where I'd last seen Roger. He was the only reason I was here, miles away from anyone or anywhere I knew. If he vanished on me like this, what was I supposed to do? It was pure fear that eventually drove me from the room and out into the kitchen, following the sound of cups.

'Oh Cat!' Lyn turned around from the sink where she'd been banging cups and plates around, that overly fake smile plastered across her face again. There was a recklessness to her at that moment that I hadn't seen before. My stomach turned over involuntarily. 'Would you like a cup of coffee?'

'No thank you.' I shook my head, eyeing her warily.

'Tea? Hot chocolate? I've got some herbal teabags somewhere if you'd like them…' She didn't wait for an answer as she began rummaging through the cupboards. 'There's probably some cookies here too…'

'I'm fine.' I cut across her. 'I just saw Roger go out, is everything alright?'

Lyn stopped what she was doing immediately and her eyes flew to mine. The colour seemed to drain from her face as she realised what I was really asking. Her voice lost its enforced sparkle and dropped in pitch. 'You know.'

Her words brought back that time all those months ago, Collins and me on the sofa: _You… knew_. The memory of the friend I'd had on that occasion who had literally carried me through one of the worst experiences of my life made a lump rise in my throat. I wished he was here now; he'd be so much better than I was. And yet, if there was anything I could learn from Collins, it was kindness. I could be kind.

'Yes.' I nodded. 'Are you alright?'

Lyn didn't reply but she stopped her bustling around the kitchen, sinking into the nearest available chair around the big family table. It was too big, I thought now, too big for the three people who made up this strange disjointed family. Perhaps once upon a time there had been hopes for more, more children, future grandchildren, a noise to fill the too-cold house. Roger had done his best to avoid fulfilling those hopes so far and wasn't doing much to aid them now.

In the silence that followed, I made myself busy and continued with the job Lyn had started before I entered the kitchen. I rinsed the cups she had placed in the sink and stacked them on the draining board. It took until I'd dried the cups and placed the last one back in the cupboard before she spoke.

'I should have known.' Her voice was calm with only a slight quiver. She kept her back to me, staring across the table and out of the window. 'I should have known something was wrong. He's been gone so long. I just thought…' She tailed off and put her hand over her mouth.

I turned my back, unwilling to witness her falling apart. Reaching some cups, I began to make the coffee I'd declined earlier, adding extra sugar to Lyn's to counteract the shock she'd had. Her stillness now was almost as unnerving as her manic activity had been as I entered the kitchen.

'He's changed so much,' she said now, half to herself. 'I should have known, it was so obvious… I just hoped he was too busy to come home, too… _happy_.'

The half-truth came too easily in the face of her despair. 'He is happy.' As she turned to look at me, it was clear that she didn't believe me. The evidence to the contrary was all too obvious. 'That is… he's not _unhappy_,' I added, stammering a little. 'Most of the time.'

Lyn turned her attention back to the outside world. A small brown bird rather like a sparrow was sitting on the window ledge, fluffing its feathers up in the snow. We both watched it for several long moments.

'I can't bear the thought that he was so alone,' she said eventually, her voice slightly louder than before. 'Through it all. He was so alone.'

'He had friends. Wonderful friends.' I thought of them all, those people who had surrounded Roger like a security blanket for the last decade. 'He still has.'

'But I'm his mom!' Lyn exclaimed suddenly, her throat choked with unspent sobs. 'I'm his mom and I wasn't there! When he really needed me, he… walked away.' She put a hand over her mouth as if it would make her pain go away.

'Yes,' I said after a short pause. 'He does that.' When Lyn turned to look at me again, her face wet with tears, I felt my own resolve break down a little. The last ten days in America had been so strange. It had almost been like existing inside my own bubble, observing everything that was going on and yet never allowing it to touch me. Now, in this kitchen, it all caught up with me and for the first time in a very long time, I wanted my own mother, my own family around me, just to know they were there. It was a shock that I could still feel that.

Now I felt the need to regain some control, and I tried to swallow my sobs as I said, 'He just… he didn't want to let you down.'

'That stupid boy.' Lyn got to her feet. 'As if he could ever let me down. But you…' She put a hand on my elbow unexpectedly and I flinched, barely able to remember the last time my own mother had touched me in such a kindly way. 'I think he's let you down?' She raised her eyebrows to help emphasise her question and I gave her a wobbly nod. 'You lovely girl. Thank you. Thank you for bringing him home.'

Before I knew it, I was encased in her arms. As my own body gave way to treacherous agonising sobs, her own became a frame around me, like scaffolding around a crumbling building. It felt as though I'd been holding onto this pain for weeks. Only now, with Lyn rubbing my back, did I finally let go. It was one of the only places I would ever feel fully at home and for the first time, I began to believe what she was murmuring to me.

'It's going to be alright. It's going to be fine.'

* * *

><p>The wait for Roger to come home was interminable. Morning drifted into afternoon, a day completely unpunctuated by meals or everyday occurrences. The day after Christmas was a public holiday in England and it usually passed, at least for me, in a haze of uncomfortable feelings from too much food and too many relatives. Here in America it was supposed to be a normal day, and yet out here in the snow-caked countryside, it felt like yesterday had simply lingered on. The afternoon brought no visitors and no distraction from Roger's absence, just a slow ticking of the clock as I tried and failed to think about him.<p>

Lyn had retreated into her own world as the day continued, whilst Michael busied himself around the farm; life had paused for quite long enough in his mind. A couple of men arrived mid-afternoon to help him, momentarily making me believe that Roger had returned home. And yet the sun began to sink behind the hill we'd run down only yesterday, and the shadows lengthened, and still there was no sign of him. My fear increased.

According to Lyn, the nearest town was a mile away. It wasn't an unreasonable walk despite the snow and Roger knew the way well. It was likely he had simply needed some space to think; he certainly had past form for that. There was no real basis for my anxiety. All of his stuff was still here; to my shame, I had actually checked his room and found some comfort in his favourite checked shirt still being balled up on the floor. He wouldn't leave without that. He'd come back. It was the state he'd be in when he came back which worried me. Red Hook might be a small town but that didn't mean it was immune from the kinds of difficulties Roger had faced on a daily basis in Alphabet City. Addicts had a way of finding the things they needed, and if he ever felt tempted to slip again, this seemed like the kind of time it would happen.

I missed Mark that afternoon. I missed having someone who would understand the kind of man Roger had become, and would accept him for it. As Lyn and Michael avoided the issue altogether, I was left wishing that somebody else could take the responsibility for this mess off of my shoulders. If I hadn't insisted on his coming here, if I had just kept my nose out of it like Mark had suggested, things would be better. I was sure they would be. Perhaps this was one truth too far. I had never had much opportunity to take responsibility for anything before, and that afternoon I couldn't help thinking that looking after Roger was not a beginner's job. If I'd had Mark's parents' phone number, he'd have been kept very busy.

Left alone like this, I filled my time by staring out the window and pacing the house, admiring all the views it had to offer. It was a truly beautiful piece of countryside and I couldn't help comparing with the views from Avenue A. There seemed no contest for me; I would choose the rolling hills over the steaming gutters any day. It was a surprising conclusion; I'd always thought I was a city-girl at heart, and yet I couldn't help remembering how my favourite moments of that balmy summer had been the quiet afternoons spent with Roger in Central Park. The signs had perhaps always been there. And I was reminded of what Roger had said all that time ago, explaining why he escaped to that patch of greenery at the heart of one of the busiest cites on Earth: _Things change_.

I wished I knew where he was.

Afternoon had drifted into evening and I'd returned to the spot I'd taken up that morning, book in hand and the window within sight. Like before, the words swam in front of my eyes and the pages weren't turned for whole minutes at a time. My frequent glances out of the window proved fruitless and yet I carried on, as though keeping my eyes rooted on the long curving driveway would somehow bring him home. I had nothing else left to do. By now, I'd resigned myself to this feeling that Roger was in my care as Collins had always intended it to be. This was how our friend had lived his life, with one eye always looking for Roger on the horizon. Collins had given me so much more than he could ever have known about; this seemed a fair exchange.

And yet when movement outside triggered the security light and the car was suddenly illuminated as its owner trudged into the beam, I behaved as I felt certain Collins never would have. I left my coat and boots behind, forgetting them in the urgent need to make certain that this was real. I barely even noticed the snow as I wrenched the front door open and hurtled out into the snow.

'Cat?' Roger was first confused and then startled as I dived into his arms, my own looping around his neck. 'Cat, what's happened?' When I didn't reply, his tone became more urgent and concerned. 'Cat! You're freezing, you're out here without a coat or anything or…' He didn't say anymore. He couldn't as I'd firmly pressed my lips against his. There were cold and he was unprepared; we bashed teeth and then I pulled away, my cheeks burning despite the freezing temperature.

'I… I didn't know where you'd gone.' There was a long silence after my words, which were snatched away by the keen wind. It seemed a strange excuse for what I'd done and I giggled nervously, now wondering if I ought to turn it into a joke. I loosened my hold around his neck and pulled away, replacing his arms with my own as I hugged myself against the cold.

'I just went for a walk. Nothing special. I lost track of time.' He spoke in a low voice. 'Are you alright?'

'Me? Yes, of course.' My voice sounded false. 'I was just… wondering. But you're here now.'

'Cat…' He took a step towards me and I flinched.

'So long as you're alright,' I continued, trying to hide my nervous reactions. 'You are, aren't you?'

'Yeah.'

'That's alright then.' I backed up another step, my socks soaking up the snow. 'I should be getting back inside, you're right, I'm freezing, I'll… go and get changed.' He called after me, but I'd already disappeared inside, dripping snow across the hallway and up the stairs until I finally closed the bedroom door behind me and buried my face in a pillow. It was only when I was lying still that I could feel my heart leaping, the blood rushing through my head at an alarming rate. It took several minutes for the throbbing in my temples to cease, and many more before I finally dragged myself upright and began peeling the socks off my red and swollen feet.

* * *

><p>The evening continued in much the same fashion as the rest of the day had. The house remained eerily silent even as it became clear that Michael couldn't possibly still be farming unless he had the night vision of an owl. There seemed to be no intention to eat an evening meal that night and that suited me; I wasn't sure how I'd face any member of that strange lonely family this evening. As the house continued to hide its inhabitants' secrets, I lay quietly on the borrowed bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if this was really what Collins had wanted from me. I seemed to be making things more complicated by the second, and I sent an apology to my friend, wherever he was now. I hoped he wasn't watching this.<p>

After what felt like several lifetimes' worth of silence, I sat up. Being outside in the snow earlier had seemingly given my wayward hair permission to spring up in the curls and waves it spent its entire life fighting to get back to. I tossed it back off my face and bundled it into a loose and scruffy ponytail before gingerly making my way downstairs.

It was as though I was the only person left in the house. There wasn't even the sound of the television drifting across from the living room as there would have been in any other house. I wondered if everybody else had gone to bed. Farmers were, after all, notorious for being early to bed and early to rise, and the day had been particularly stressful. It may only have been nine o'clock at night but perhaps a good night's sleep was just what everybody needed. I hoped I'd be able to join them soon.

My appetite had never appeared that day; all I was looking for was a glass of water. I was unwilling to turn the light and draw attention to my presence, and so it was after several false starts that I finally found a glass and filled it from the tap. The snow outside cast a strange glow upon the kitchen and I gazed out of the window as I sipped the water. Perhaps snow had its plus points after all, I mused; it certainly made the black nights of the countryside more bearable.

The kitchen light flickered on and I let out a small gasp of surprise.

'Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump.' I turned to see Roger standing in the doorway. 'I thought it was you.'

'I was just getting a drink.' I held the glass up redundantly, as though my claim was in dispute.

'Do you want anything to eat? I could make you an omelette or something.'

I shook my head.

He seemed about to say something more and I panicked. That familiar racing heart beat took over again and I knew I needed to escape from this situation. It was with some irony that I sent another silent message to Collins: _yes, I'm running away again._ _What else did you expect?_ Right now, Collins's disapproval was preferable to being left here, alone, with Roger.

'I'm just on my way to bed actually, so goodnight…' My voice tailed off as I tried to squeeze by him. He didn't move an inch and I stopped short, unwilling to touch any part of him with any part of myself. The words stuck in my throat. 'If I could… could I… I…?'

'Cat.' One word, one syllable, stopped me again and I found it impossible not to lift my eyes to his. His eyes were calm, blue like the sea, and there was an ocean of reassurance in them too. I was reminded of the age gap between us, and for the first time, I was grateful as he spoke again. 'I think we need to talk. Don't you?'

I nodded.

'What happened earlier…'

'It was a mistake.' I blurted the words out uselessly as a defence, and for a second I thought he might believe them – and I regretted them.

But he continued. 'No, it wasn't. You know it wasn't. It would be easier if it was, but it wasn't.' I lowered my eyes. 'Cat. C'mon. Talk to me.'

Talking wasn't what we were good at, at least not about important things. Collins had been right; we'd always shied away from the real things, hiding behind teasing statements and caresses. It wasn't something that came naturally to me now.

'What should I say?' I asked eventually, my voice small and craving some direction. For perhaps the first time, I was handing myself over to Roger completely. He was the elder of us; he was in charge. I found a strange sense of relief in that.

He smiled. 'I don't know. Something true.'

It was the only thing which sprang to mind. 'I'm not engaged.'

If Roger was surprised, he didn't show it. Or maybe he did, and I missed it. Within moments of my confession, he'd taken my head in his hands and pressed his mouth against mine, returning the kiss I'd given him hours before. Only this time it was longer and fiercer with no chance of escape. Not that I wanted to. When he finally did pull away, I felt my entire body give a sigh.

Roger's hand closed around my own and he gave a gentle tug. 'Come on.' I followed blindly as he led the way upstairs and into his room, closing the door firmly behind him.


	36. Chapter 36

'It's been a while since I did that.' Roger's voice broke the silence which had descended in the room as we'd both caught our breath. My head had found its old resting place on his chest.

Now I lifted my head. 'Did what?'

'Made out in my parents' house.'

My stomach twisted uncomfortably as he reminded me of exactly what we'd done, something I'd managed to block out for the last half hour or so. Now I gave a low moan and tried to bury myself within Roger's embrace, something he found endlessly amusing to judge by the way his chest reverberated with the sound of his laughter.

When the embarrassment had somewhat faded and the silence had descended again, I ventured to ask, 'So when was the last time then?'

'Last time for what?'

'The last time you made out in your parents' house.'

There was a long pause and I assumed he'd decided not to answer it. There was nothing unusual in that and it wasn't as though the question held any relevance. Yet somehow it irked me; it had taken so little time for us to start avoiding each other again.

'Then, 'Rachel Zuckerman. January fifteenth, nineteen-eighty-two.'

'Wow.' I lifted my head again to look him in the eye and fully express my shock. 'She must have been good!'

He gave a low murmuring laugh again. 'She wasn't bad.'

'Who was she?'

'A girl I knew from high school.'

'Your girlfriend.'

'No. A girl from high school.' He gave me a pointed look which told me there was a clear difference between the two things. It wasn't something I knew much about. 'It was the night before I left for New York.'

It seemed unusual to have marked such a momentous occasion with a quick fumble with 'a girl from high school', but I decided that it was neither the time nor my place to question it. It had happened nearly thirteen years ago after all. Momentarily, I wondered what had become of Rachel Zuckerman, the last woman to share this bed with Roger. Before my wonderings could become more, Roger spoke again.

'Why did you tell me you were engaged?'

'Why didn't you guess I wasn't?' I waggled my left hand at him, half-hoping I could banter the conversation away. When it became clear that Roger wasn't going to be distracted, I sighed and gave a small shrug. 'I don't know.' I paused before adding, 'I suppose I wanted to hurt you.' It was on my tongue to take the comment back, horrified that such a thought had crossed my mind, let alone my lips, but then I let it lie. He'd asked me to say something true earlier; there were very few truths as honest as that one.

Roger stroked my hair for a few moments, making some moves towards detangling the mess it had got into as soon as the snow had landed on it earlier that day. My body tensed against his as I waited for his reaction. When it came I felt each muscle relax. 'Yeah. I can see that.' His fingers continued to work their way through my curls as he said, 'So he hasn't proposed again then?'

'Not yet.'

'You're expecting it?'

'My mother said he was planning on proposing this Christmas.'

'Do you think she was right?'

'Probably.' I thought about Sam then. We could have been engaged less than twenty-four hours ago, could have been planning our wedding right at this moment. And instead I was thousands of miles away and in bed with somebody else. I should have felt guilty. It took me a long time to realise that what I really felt was relief.

'What would you have said? If he'd asked, I mean.' Roger tried to sound disinterested and as though he was just making small talk, but he couldn't keep the keen desire for an answer out of his voice. He looped a strand of my hair around his finger and his hand froze as he waited.

I gave the matter some thought and finally decided to be honest. It was a policy that had served me well so far this evening. 'If he'd asked me a week ago, I'd have said yes.' The memories of those frozen days in New York City where nothing seemed to relieve the pain and misery deep down inside me made me certain that, if Sam had taken a break from his life and come to find me, I'd have willingly gone with him wherever he had wanted to take me. He'd have been a hero, at least in my eyes.

'And now?' He tightened the tension on my hair ever so slightly, almost making me wince with the pain as he tugged on my scalp. It was clear that this answer was the one which counted, which could alter the course of the evening entirely. It would have been easy to laugh it off, to joke that it was unlikely Sam would ask me right at that second considering I was lying naked in bed with a strange man. But that would be wrong.

'I'd say no.' I linked my fingers through his and nuzzled into his chest. He released the strand of hair which bounced up against my shoulder defiantly, as if it too was relieved to have survived the encounter. His hand strayed down to my hip and pulled me ever so slightly closer towards him. I wasn't complaining.

Long minutes passed as we lay alongside each other. For one of the first times since I'd come back to New York this winter, I felt each and every muscle let go. Breathing in the ever familiar smell of cigarettes and sheer Roger, I realised I'd spent the last four months searching just for this, this feeling of utter contentment. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew that it was feeling that wouldn't last, that daylight would bring new challenges and difficulties. Whatever I'd just restarted with Roger wasn't going to be easy. But it was right. I'd never felt so surely in my life that something I'd done had been the right thing to do. There was a certain satisfaction in that.

Roger had been quiet for so long that I assumed he had gone to sleep after his hard day. That is, until he pressed his lips to my forehead.

'What was that for?' My own voice was muffled as I fought against sleep myself. A day of pacing the house and worrying had worn me out. Now I came to think about it, worrying was what I'd been doing for the past week or so, maybe even the last few months. That was a good excuse for how exhausted I was feeling now.

I felt his lips twitch into a smile against my head as he replied. 'Nothing. Everything.' He sighed into my hair and pulled me ever closer, as though he wanted to tuck me inside him for safekeeping.

Soon after that, exhausted and warm for the first time in so long, I fell asleep.

* * *

><p>'I can't believe you talked me into this,' I muttered, kicking snow up in front of me as we walked back up the hill we'd all but rolled down two days earlier. I rammed my hands into my coat pockets and ground to a halt. 'Seriously, Roger, what part of "I hate snow" don't you understand?'<p>

Roger turned to face me, a smile dancing across his mouth. That smile still had the power to surprise me; it had been such a fleeting part of our relationship before and even now it seemed rusty and ill-used. Yet it had been an ever-present sight that morning since I'd woken to find the same mouth trailing kisses across my skin. It changed everything about him, softening those sometimes too-intense eyes and giving his fading tan an extra boost. Despite my reluctance to continue this walk any further, my own lips twitched into a reply.

Now he held his hand out towards me. 'I thought you Brits were all stiff upper lip,' he teased. 'Come on.' When I still didn't move, he gave a small laugh and, stepping towards me, pulled one of my hands out of a pocket and wrapped his own hand around it. 'Come on!' With a small tug he encouraged me to keep following him up the hill.

Despite my moans, I knew that I was largely playing a part. I wasn't half as irritated by this walk as I wanted to seem. In truth, there was little which could stop my mouth creasing up into a smile that morning, much as I tried to hide it. From the moment Roger had woken me up, it had felt like the best day I'd had for a very long time. The sun was shining brightly and the snow was beginning to drip from the trees. With Roger's speciality pancakes for breakfast, it had felt like a pretty perfect day until he'd insisted on my accompanying him outside. It had only been his reminder that it could have been worse, he could have been forcing me to ride Delilah, that had got me this far.

Nevertheless, I was grateful when we reached the top of the hill. All those walks with Chas and Dave throughout the autumn hadn't prepared me for the snowy hills of New York State, and I stopped again to catch my breath. Only when I could breathe again properly did I glance up at where Roger had wandered to. And I found him watching me with that smile on his face again.

'What?' I frowned and rubbed at my mouth self-consciously, wondering if I still had some maple syrup on my face. Or perhaps it was my hair which was more unruly than ever. My nose was bound to be red as well. On reflection, I certainly didn't look at my best, no wonder he was staring. 'What?' I repeated, slightly more high-pitched and anxious.

'Nothing.' The smile widened to a grin. It seemed Roger was as unused to that as I was, as he ran a hand over his face and tried to hide it whilst shuffling his feet. 'It's just…' He shrugged and put his hands inside his jeans' pockets for safe-keeping, that grin still firmly in place. 'If anybody had told me six months ago that I'd be here… with you…'

I felt my cheeks redden to match my nose. 'Where did you think you'd be?' I asked, hoping to deflect the attention away from me.

'Dead.'

I tried to hide the shock the word injected into me. 'I hate it when you do that,' I told him quietly.

'Do what?'

'Joke around like that.'

'Who's joking?' He shot me a challenging look before dropping his gaze to the ground and turning away from me, as though by doing so we could forget the conversation ever happened. Within seconds, he'd pulled his cigarettes out and was lighting one.

'Well, they won't help with that,' I muttered.

'Meems used to say the same thing.' For a moment I thought I'd misheard him or imagined it. I was prepared to ignore it. Then he turned to look at me briefly and added, 'She hated me smoking too.' He turned back to whatever he was looking at, leaving me to deal with what he'd said on my own.

It took me several minutes to pluck up the courage to say anything at all. There was no way of preparing for this, and if I was honest, the mere mention of Mimi's name had shocked me. It had been taboo for as long as I'd known Roger, so much so that I'd only ever heard him say her name once, let alone refer to her by his pet name for her. I had no idea how to go about addressing this; it was a million miles away from my comfort zone.

Then, finally, I took a few steps towards him, hoping that when my feet stopped, my mouth would start moving and something sensible would come out.

'You never mention her.'

'No. I know.'

'Or April.'

'No.'

'Or Angel. Collins hated that.'

Roger turned to look at me and his eyes revealed a thousand apologies and regrets which were running through his mind. 'I know,' he said simply, before turning back to gaze at the field of sheep in front of us.

I followed his gaze and tried to put aside the notion that he was deliberately blocking me out. He'd shared more of himself than usual over the last couple of days; perhaps he needed to keep this to himself in order to hold onto some semblance of what made him Roger. And yet I couldn't help feeling hurt. He kept telling me how much I'd done for him, how grateful he was, but when it came to it, he still didn't trust me enough to share this with me. A burst of jealousy exploded in my chest as I thought of all the people who knew about Roger's past, and immediately felt guilty for envying Collins. What was there to envy a dead man?

Without warning, Roger moved forwards again, leading the way down the other side of the slope. His hands stayed firmly tucked into his pockets and he made no effort to invite me to join him. I could have turned back and gone into the house, tucking myself away from the snow and the casual way Roger hurt me without even trying.

I followed him. We covered the ground at breakneck speed and I find myself almost tripping over my own feet as the snow tried its best to hamper my progress. The knot in my chest tightened as my frustration grew. Finally, as Roger paused to open a gate, I came to an abrupt halt, my breath ragged in my chest. For a moment I thought he might turn back and offer me some comfort, a smile which showed he'd remembered I was even here. When he pushed through the gate without a backward glance, the knot was pulled too forcefully and snapped.

'Are we really doing this?' When I got no reply, I added in a slightly choked voice, 'I thought you'd decided to stop running away.'

A frown creased his features. 'Who's running?'

Tears blurred my vision and I tried to blink them away, unwilling to show just how upset I was. After such a perfect start to the day, it was partially shock at how quickly things could change which caused my distress now. It was something I should have been used to with Roger by now and yet he never seemed to fail to surprise me.

I took several careful breaths before saying, 'I just want to know. Why do you keep doing this?' Before he could so much as flicker an eyebrow in confusion I blurted out, 'Why do you never even mention them? I know they've… gone,' I added, wishing I had the nerve to just say it, just say the word _died_. 'I know that, I know… I just don't see how this is helping.' I hugged myself in the absence of anybody else to do it for me. 'What about if it was me? What if I…?'

'Don't!' Roger cut in, his voice fierce. 'Just… don't.' In the snowy silence that followed, I studied his face as a hundred emotions seemed to pass across it in quick succession. His jaw was set in a grim line by the time he finally spoke, his voice softer and more gravelly than usual. 'So what do you want?'

It was difficult to put into words. I wanted him to finally stop avoiding me, for him to give in and let me inside the wall which only Mark ever seemed to have fully broken through. That envy passed through me again, but this time it wasn't accompanied by guilt. For the first time, I felt as though I had a right to know this. Whatever _this_ was.

Eventually I came to a conclusion. 'I want to know.' I made a vague gesture between us. 'If this… if _we_ are going to…' I shook my head, the words failing me once again, and I went back to my original answer. 'I just want to know.'

There was a pause, and then Roger nodded. 'Yeah.' He held out his hand, and for a moment I frowned, unsure if that was the end of this conversation, if he was once again evading the issue. Sensing my reluctance, he added, 'There's a shelter round the corner. You might want to get comfortable.'

True enough, as he led me across the next field we came across a small three-sided shelter, presumably intended as some kind of shepherd's hut. Two sheep moved out of it with what I could only assume were disgruntled expressions on their faces as we sat down on the hard bench inside. It wasn't the most desirable location I'd ever been taken in my life.

And yet it was there that Roger let his guard down once and for all, laying his past out for me like a tapestry which finally explained the mystery of Roger Davis.


	37. Chapter 37

**I know we know the story of Roger Davis really. I'm just filling in the blanks.**

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><p>'My mom was telling the truth when she said I couldn't wait to move to New York. It was more for her than me that I waited as long as I did. It wasn't like there was much left here for me.' Roger made a vague gesture across the field in front of him, a gesture the sheep didn't even acknowledge. Now I tried my best to put myself in his shoes and see it all as he must have at the age of eighteen, impatient and ready for life to begin. I supposed it wasn't a huge leap from my own desire to escape England earlier that year; it had just taken me slightly longer to search for something beyond my own doorstep.<p>

'A few of my friends went away to college the fall after graduation. The rest of us just kinda hung around and tried not to do anything stupid. By Christmas, three of the guys were engaged and one had got a baby on the way. When everybody went back to college after the holidays, I didn't see much point in hanging around any longer.'

As Roger lit his cigarette, I thought about what he must have left behind that winter. Delilah was just the tip of the iceberg. There were his parents, the friends he'd grown up with and the families' he'd known. And Rachel Zuckerman, whoever she was and wherever she'd ended up. Perhaps he was right and it had been nothing more than a brief fling. Or perhaps she'd wanted more, and Roger had broken someone else's heart as easily as breathing. Little would surprise me about him anymore, and yet right now all I could feel was an overwhelming sense of pity for the eighteen-year-old boy who had no idea how things would eventually work out.

'The thing my mom never knew though was how much I hated New York when I first got there.' A wry smile curled his lips into a mocking grin directed at his younger self. 'It was too big and noisy and fast for a country boy like me. If it wasn't for how much I wanted to prove my dad wrong, I'd have got the first train back out of there and come home. Maybe I should have done.' He shrugged and flicked ash onto the grimy snow at his feet. 'Whatever. I didn't anyway.'

'What did you do?' I spoke for the first time in several minutes, unsure whether I should remind him I was there or not. It had seemed as though he were talking half to himself and I wondered if my interjection would jerk him out of his reverie and urge him to tell me the story in as few words and as quickly as possible. I hoped not.

'I holed up in a hostel for a few days. Then, when I was pretty much broke, I met Mark.' He smiled and tried to hide it but I'd already seen, and it served to remind me that no matter how close Roger let me get to him, Mark would always have something more. There was a shared history there, an engrained affection which nothing could ever change. I couldn't compete with that. And, I realised now, I didn't have to; it was okay.

'He'd just dropped out of college and was looking for a room-mate and I fit the bill. I bet he regretted that later, but…' He took a lungful of smoke. 'It was good, you know? For a while. I was getting myself sorted for the first time in my life, actually doing something I gave a shit about. School had never been my thing, but this was. I spent a couple of years getting a band together and we were just getting somewhere. We could have been big. And then… then I met April.'

It was only the second time I'd ever heard him say her name and I wasn't expecting the slightly weary sigh which accompanied it. I wasn't sure just what I had been expecting – tears and tantrums, at least in public, weren't Roger's style, and so far he had been calm and disconcertingly composed as he related his history. That the mention of his dead girlfriend's name would produce a sound of exasperation rather than regret was unusual, but, I supposed, Roger had never pretended to be straightforward.

'April was a junior at NYU when I met her. She'd come along to one of our gigs and hung out afterwards. I'd seen her a few times before the night we finally got talking, I'd just never got around to saying hey. Looking back, I suppose it would have been better if I hadn't after all. It was pretty obvious she was strung out even then, but I guess I didn't see it. Or didn't want to. I don't know.' He shrugged and fell silent for a while, taking several long drags on his cigarette, perhaps trying to remember if he'd noticed anything unusual about her all those years ago.

I fought against my desire to know more for a few minutes, knowing that what I was about to ask was silly and petty and completely demeaned the entire tale Roger was sharing with me. But there it was, and finally it made its own way out. 'Was she pretty?' I blushed as he looked at me, and half-wanted to take it back. Then I left it. This was his life, it was part of him. Silly questions like this were part of me. It was time we both stopped denying who we were.

For a moment I though Roger was going to ignore the question. Then that smile reappeared, slightly rueful and sad, but there, and he blew out a mouthful of smoke. 'Not like you'd think. Not like you.' Before I could protest that I hadn't been fishing for compliments, he continued, 'Mark's got loads of photos of her somewhere. Probably some film too. You should see them some time. She was pretty ordinary looking really. But… she had these eyes.' Shaking his head, he realised he'd come to the end of his cigarette and stubbed it out against his boot. For a few seconds, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared out across the field. It seemed as though he was concentrating intently on something. Eventually, he said, 'There was just something about her. She was so different, so _alive_. She made everything _more_, somehow.'

I hoped I managed to keep the slight edge of bitterness out of my voice when I said, 'She sounds wonderful.'

'Yeah, she was. At least, I suppose she was.' It was like he was still trying to work this all out himself. Pulling a face, he said, 'The more I think about it, the more I wonder… It isn't that I didn't… _love_ her. It's just… I'm not sure anymore where heroin ended and she began.' He shook his head. 'Sorry, you didn't want to hear this.'

I made a noise which I hoped signalled disagreement and waited to see if he would continue.

'Being with April was wonderful. Everybody loved her. I mean everybody. Mark had met Maureen by then and we formed this weird foursome. It was… good. Maureen adored her, April was like her idol or something. They were almost inseparable. At least until April's addiction took over anyway. Sorry, is it okay if I…?' He tailed off and pulled out his cigarettes again. I didn't reply; one more didn't seem too bad under the circumstances. He took a long drag as though it had been days not merely minutes since his last hit of nicotine, and breathed the smoke out. 'Anyway. After meeting April it all fell apart a bit. The band was doing well, like my mom said, we were close to getting a record deal. And I fucked up.'

'You didn't-' I began but he immediately interrupted.

'Yeah, I did. Believe me, Cat, I spent years pretending I didn't, blaming everybody else for what happened. But it was me. Just me.' He breathed out heavily, smoke curling up into the winter air. 'At first it was alright. Better than alright, it was… good. April always said it was like flying, like your feet weren't on the floor anymore, and she was right. It was probably the last thing she ever said that was right. But it didn't last long. Soon we were fighting over the stash, selling anything we could to find money. It was crazy. I remember…' He tailed off as he struggled to get the words out then finally continued. 'I remember when I found out that April had slept with the dealer that I didn't even feel anything. It was just like a fact or something, something necessary. I was more mad that she wouldn't share with me.'

Despite my best efforts to hide my momentary disgust, it must have shown on my face, as his eyes darted to my face and then down to the snow at our feet. 'Sorry, I know. I was a shit.'

'It doesn't matter.' I shook my head.

'It does.' And I knew for him that it did. I let him continue with his story, hoping that I'd disguise any further reactions. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'I did some horrible things. Stealing and stuff. I even stole off of Mark. The band fell apart and so did we.' In between those short clipped sentences, a whole other story was hidden, I was sure. That he'd chosen not to tell me anymore was clearly the way it was going to be. I let him do it. In truth, I wasn't sure how much more I could take anyway; whilst I knew now that whatever he told me would never change the way I felt about him, the grimier this picture became, the less impressed I was with myself for this blind devotion. It was so unlike me.

'Without the band, there was nothing to stand in between me and heroin. Those weeks kind of merge together.' He shrugged and took a drag on his cigarette, yet beneath his seemingly nonchalant exterior, I could see the tell-tale signs that what was to come next was the crux of it all, the reason that April had been haunting him all these years. Yet when the truth came, I wasn't ready for it. 'One day I came back from scoring and found she'd left me a note. I didn't really take in that she'd given me HIV at the time. Finding her body in the bathroom kind of took over. She'd killed herself,' he added for clarification. 'Slit her wrists. It was a very April-thing to do.'

'I'm… so sorry.' The words were nowhere near enough yet they were all I could say. My life had left me ill-equipped to deal with situations like this. Not for the first time, I felt decades younger than Roger, unable to comprehend how anybody could deal with all of this. He'd been the same age as I was now when this had happened; that he was still here and functioning at all was amazing.

Roger continued as though I'd said nothing, as though determined to get through this now at all costs. 'The next year was a blur. On drugs, off drugs. A few half-hearted overdoses. It wasn't until I got clean that I gave the HIV much thought. Everybody kept telling me I was lucky when my T-cell count came back reasonably high. Since then I've been on AZT and I seem to be doing okay. Lucky!' He snorted. 'That's one way of putting it.'

I tried to focus on the positives in this situation, as much for myself as for him. 'So you've been clean since then?'

'Almost. Apart from...' For the first time I felt guilty. When I'd insisted on him being honest, I'd never foreseen a tale like this. These things had happened so long ago, almost a lifetime ago for me, and yet they still had the power to eat into this man. Collins had told me that Roger had had a lot of deal with and I'd demanded he tell me everything anyway. I should have known better.

Now, as the silence dragged on, I said, 'You don't have to…'

'I want to.' Roger spoke with more determination than I'd ever heard from him before. 'I… need to. It's just… you're only the third person I've ever told this all to.' He gave me a weak smile before continuing, with a deep sigh. 'So. I finally got clean. Thanks to Mark. And Collins, but mainly Mark. I don't know why he didn't just leave after everything I'd done to him. I guess he's a sucker for punishment.'

'He cares about you,' I interrupted, unwilling to have any aspersions cast on the only best friend I'd ever had.

'I know. It's one of his worst qualities.' Roger breathed out a cloud of smoke as he smiled ruefully. 'And I know that's why I found him so annoying back then. He was desperate for me to get on with my life, to move forward and do something amazing. When I first met Mimi, I think it was more for his benefit than mine that I started seeing her. And then…' He shrugged as he said, 'then I fell for her.' The uneasy way he revealed it only made me all the more certain that he was telling the truth now. 'And it was stupid because we were so unsuitable, two addicts with HIV. And yet…'

'You loved her. You still love her,' I finished his sentence and found that I wasn't jealous at all. Mimi had lurked in the background of our relationship for so long that once upon a time I'd have resented the feelings that were still so clearly buried deep within him for this long-gone woman. Now all I could feel was an intense sadness that things hadn't worked out. After everything with April, the way he'd recklessly thrown all his dreams away without a thought until it was too late to do anything about it, he deserved something.

'She changed how I thought about things,' he said. 'She made me live again. Really live, I mean, not the existence I'd had since April died. And I fucked that up too.'

'But I thought she… died?'

'She did. It's just… I wasted so much time. I… pushed her away when she needed me the most.' He lifted his eyes to mine and then looked away, as though remembering how he'd repeated his mistake all over again not six months ago. 'I ran away. By the time I came back, she was sick. She got better but… well, you never quite get better. Not with this.' He studied his cigarette carefully as he said, 'She died about a year later. I started using again just before she died. It was stupid. I wasted another few months of my life on that stuff. I just couldn't believe that it had happened again. Mimi was supposed to be my second chance, the one I did right. I'll never learn. When I met you, I'd given up.'

Despite the serious subject matter, I smiled. 'I'd already guessed that.'

He smiled back. 'Yeah. I figured.' There was a pause before he added, 'I'm so glad you came back, Cat.'

The earnestness of his words widened the smile on my face. 'Me too.'

We sat in companionable silence for some minutes, watching as the sheep huddled together, occasionally nosing through the snow at the meagre blades of grass. Even through our winter coats, I could sense Roger's body relaxing against mine, as though every barrier left between us had gone now. The sense of freedom that had crept in when I was standing in Sid's guitar shop had now spread throughout my entire body. I couldn't remember the last time I'd breathed so easily. For perhaps the first time, I spoke without second-guessing myself.

'So if Mimi was your second chance, what am I?'

Roger answered without turning his head. 'My last chance.' He dropped the cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his heel, glancing in my direction. 'You're my last chance. And I won't fuck up again.'

It was less a promise than a vow, a steely determination not to make the same mistakes again. Given the history he'd just related, it was clear that it was a pattern which had been repeated throughout his life: the assertion that he'd changed, that this time, it would be different, and then the descent into misery and the devastating consequences. It wasn't a comforting thought. And yet I believed him, believed that he wanted to change.

It was enough for me


	38. Chapter 38

**I've really struggled with the next few chapters (and potentially the rest of the story. I don't know, I haven't got that much further yet!). I've worked out why - writing happy, contented Roger is so damned difficult. Cat isn't much easier. There is just nothing to base him on really. Even the slightly more upbeat elements of the musical are tinged with melancholy because of what happens later or before. Still. I've tried. I'm trying to rationalise it as him being that bit older and in a very different place to in the musical - so if he seems OC, he probably is a little, although some of it is conjecture.**

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><p>'Rog?'<p>

'Mmm?'

'You can't keep waking me up like this.'

He lifted his head from where he'd been kissing my neck as I opened my eyes. His face was one of sleepy amusement and he gave me a lop-sided grin. 'Can't I? I thought you liked it.'

I was unable to stop a grin spreading across my own face. 'I do, but,' I added, putting a finger on his lips as he moved in to kiss me again, 'we can't spend every morning like this. We can't keep wasting time.'

'I think it's a great use of time actually.' He stroked tendrils of hair back off of my face, his mouth tantalisingly close to mine, almost enough to break my resolve. 'I'm surprised you disagree.'

'I don't. Not really. But Roger!' Laughing, I wriggled away from him and scrambled for some form of clothing, finding a red hooded sweatshirt and a pair of knickers. 'I'm serious! We can't spend all day in bed again! It's been two days!'

He leaned up on his elbows, an eyebrow cocked in a way which made my resolve weaken a little. Frowning, he said, 'We did make it out of bed yesterday. We had a shower.'

'Roger!' I rolled my eyes, even as the giggles escaped from my mouth as he made a grab for me again. 'No! Come on, we need to go out somewhere. It's not healthy to be inside all the time.' Taking decisive action, I stepped away from the bed, the sweatshirt vaguely skimming my thighs. 'I'm going to make some coffee and then you're going to get up, have a shower – _alone_ – and we're going out.'

'Out where?'

'Anywhere!' I threw my arms up in a general gesture, and then regretted it as the sweatshirt rode up and took Roger's eyebrows with it. I yanked it down and shot him a disapproving look. 'Why don't we head uptown? I didn't see much of the city in the summer.'

'Oh not the tourist stuff!' With a groan, he flopped back onto the bed. 'I knew you were too good to be true. Really?'

'Really.' I threw a pair of tracksuit trousers towards him. 'Five minutes and I'm dragging you into that shower – _don't!_' I gave him a warning look at my unfortunate choice of words, before turning round and pulling open the door to the rest of the apartment.

We'd been back from his parents' house for three days, having returned to the city the day after the long talk in the bottom field. The atmosphere in the house had felt easier when we returned inside that day, as though our hands being twisted together made everything that had happened over the last few days better. Dinner that evening was more light-hearted as Roger asked questions about the farm, shifting the conversational responsibilities onto Michael with ease. For the first time, his father engaged with him properly, comfortable with the familiar topics and pleased to be sharing them with his son after all this time. As I'd listened, giving the occasional interested nod or smile, I realised how different things could have been, and might still be. Michael's distrust of his own flesh and blood ran deep, I could see that much, and now I wondered how he had felt to see his only son walk away from the family business without a second thought for what he was leaving behind. The farm was his life, and Roger had cast it aside in the carefree way he dealt with every relationship. It would take time to repair the damage done there, but it was beginning to heal. For Lyn, I could see, it was enough for her two favourite men to be in the room together. She was right; it was going to be alright.

When we left the next evening, we were plied with every type of food imaginable in various Tupperware containers.

'Now you'll have to come back,' Lyn joked, despite the very real fear written in her eyes that she wouldn't see Roger again for another half dozen years.

Roger didn't reply, the habit of never making promises too engrained by now for him to say anything which might tie him to a commitment he just couldn't keep. Instead, he reacted with actions, and pulled his mum into a tight hug, which I was certain meant nearly as much to her as a date in the diary would have done.

'And Cat, it's been so lovely to meet you and get to know you.' Lyn turned her smile on me, reaching out to hold my hand before hugging me too. 'You have to come up again in the summer, see the place when this snow's gone. It's beautiful.'

'I'd love to,' I told her honestly, thinking of the way in which this house and family had already intertwined itself into my own history. It had been only a few days but I was leaving a different person from who I'd been when I arrived here. So was Roger, who had lost some of that haunted look in the last twenty-four hours, the man Collins had told me about beginning to come to the surface tentatively, as if sensing the air after a long time hidden away.

Michael's farewell was much more restrained, as I would have expected. He shook Roger's hand, grasping his elbow with the other hand. He said something which I didn't catch, which Roger nodded in response to. I received a formal kiss on the cheek and the comment that it had been nice to meet me and he hoped to see me again soon.

'Which,' Roger remarked on the way back to New York, 'was more than he ever said to Rachel Zuckerman.'

The city was less snowy than it had been before, the thaw having been much more thorough here than in Red Hook. As we drove back in, I tried to ignore the feelings of tension which swept back through my body as the buildings grew higher and the traffic louder. I put it down to anxiety over heading back into Alphabet City with Roger's hand in mine, an echo of how it had been before. Things were so different now, we had changed so much, that treading those same paths and stairways scared me more than it should have done. The thought of Roger shutting down again, locking me out from everything that made him real, terrified me. And yet the thought of turning away from him and asking to be dropped off back at my hotel was worse.

In the event, I needn't have worried. As we came to a stop outside of the loft, Roger glanced across at me for the first time since we'd come into the city. I recognised that look from all those months ago, a fuzzy memory of the way he'd gently cradled my head and held me upright as I swayed on Maureen and Joanne's spare bed.

'You okay?'

I nodded, swallowing hard as I gazed up at the building, already anticipating all of the memories which would bombard me if I set foot in there. 'Yes, of course.'

He regarded me carefully for a few seconds before nodding once. 'Okay. Let's go up then. We'll leave the bags for now,' he'd added as he opened the car door and half stepped out. 'We can get them in tomorrow.'

Now, as I padded around the kitchen in just his well-worn sweater, I realised our bags were still outside in the car, something I hadn't even noticed until this moment. All the more reason to actually get out and about today, I thought, wondering exactly how hideous I must look after the best part of two days spent in bed. I definitely needed to get hold of my own clothes today.

Clothes, however, had been the last thing on my mind three evenings ago as I'd followed Roger upstairs towards the apartment he shared with Mark. Each step took us that little bit closer to everything which had come between us that summer and I felt my resolve weaken with each one. By the time we reached the landing outside my old apartment, my pace had slowed enough for Roger to notice.

Again, he shot me that look full of concern and the desire to change however I was feeling. For that alone, I tried to carry on but it was clear my heart wasn't in it.

'Cat?'

'I'm fine.' I shook my head, trying to recall how I'd felt only an hour before as we left Poughkeepsie behind. But all that was suddenly filling my mind were the memories of the evenings with Roger which had ended so unsatisfactorily outside this door. Those feelings of rejection and confusion flooded through me, reminding me of how much hurt he could inflict without even trying. He'd certainly fucked up on those occasions, and despite my best attempts at believing him, right now I could see only too clearly how he could do it again without blinking. I hated it but it was true.

Gently, he took both my hands in his, his eyes studying mine intently as he pulled me nearer to him. He cupped my face in one hand, forcing me to look up into his face, unable to hide my unease any longer as my hands trembled. Underneath his touch, some of my body relaxed, yet still my heart hammered furiously in my chest, punctuating the flashes of memory which danced behind my eyes. Running away would be so easy right now.

Then, finally, Roger spoke, resting his forehead against mine, his voice little more than a whisper. When they came, his words were exactly what I needed to hear.

'I love you. I really love you. I'm not gonna hurt you again.'

Still shaking, I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing myself against him as my tongue struggled with the words I knew should come next. If Roger noticed their absence, he didn't show it, as he carefully gathered me up in his arms and carried me up the last flight of stairs to the apartment, unwittingly recreating the last time I'd set foot in the place. Suddenly, that didn't seem to matter though; if anything, it only made the moment more right because it was different now, so different. The memories which lurked in every corner of the loft were still there, still reminding me of everything which had happened here that fateful summer. But it was alright. Everything was alright.

Later that night, as I finally lay my head still on his chest, his arm draped over me protectively, I finally breathed out the words which had been held inside me for what felt like forever. He said nothing to show he'd heard them, but his hold on me tightened and his lips grazed my forehead again before settling into a smile. It made me wonder why we'd waited so long to say them.

Now though, making him coffee in one of the only cups which wasn't chipped or cracked, I knew that it was only now that we were ready for those words. Before now they would have been patches to cover up the gaps in the relationship, said in the hope that, in the absence of any truth, these would do. They'd have been cheap and tacky. Now, with all those barriers removed, they were honest and real. They mattered.

I picked both cups up and turned to carry them back to the bedroom, expecting to find Roger either fast asleep again or still keen to tempt me back into bed beside him. Despite my earlier sternness, I knew deep down that either outcome would be fine with me. It wouldn't be the first cup of coffee we'd let go cold since we'd come back to the city three days ago.

I was halfway across the living area when the front door slid open and Mark walked into the apartment.

For a moment, we stared at each other, each as shocked as the other. Somehow, I'd all but forgotten that Mark lived here too, so used had I grown to sharing this space with Roger alone. I'd dressed this morning assuming it would only be Roger who would see me. Now, as I felt Mark's eyes widen further as he took in the picture in front of him, I became ever more aware of the length – or lack thereof – of the sweatshirt. To make matters worse, my hands were completely full. There was no way of hiding what this was, although at that very moment I might have wanted to.

Finally, Mark said something, and if it was unoriginal, I forgave him for it. 'Cat. Hey.'

'Hello.' I crossed my legs at the knees, hoping that would somehow make my outfit less revealing. Not that that would hide my bed-mussed hair and kiss-stung lips. Nothing would make this easier to explain. Hoping that I could brazen it out, unsure how Mark would take the truth of the situation, I shook my hair back from my face. 'How are you?'

'I'm good… I'm…' Mark's eyes flew from me to the kitchen and then to Roger's ajar door. 'Sorry… I just…' He blinked several times. 'Are you and… Roger…?' His mouth moved in a thousand different ways as he struggled for the right words to express what he wanted to know.

After a long period of silence, I took pity on him. I nodded. 'Yes.'

For a moment his face froze. Then, slowly, a smile spread across it, lighting up his eyes and filling him with an energy I'd rarely seen in him before, certainly not recently. It made me realise how little he'd had to smile about in the past few months and how rare such a genuine grin had been when we parted before Christmas. Before I could reflect upon how much we'd all changed in those few strange days, Mark had covered the space between us and clumsily pulled me into a hug.

'Oh!' I yelped, unable to respond properly as my hands were still full of coffee, and covered in it now, for once thankful that the kettle in the loft never quite boiled the water. Nervous laughter filled the space left by my exclamation. 'Careful, Mark!'

'Sorry!' He let me go briefly, taking one of the cups from me, his face still stretched into an impossibly bright smile. 'This is just… great news.'

'Is it?' I raised my eyebrows, only now realising how much I'd expected Mark to hate this news, remembering how badly he'd taken all of it in the summer. Even so, the smile stayed on my face as I thought that they were exactly the words I'd been searching for ever since Roger had first placed his lips upon mine in his parents' kitchen. 'You really mean that?'

'Yeah! Cat, this is amazing!' And I let myself believe him finally, my face stretching into a matching grin despite my unsuitable clothing and messy hair. Mark's approval sealed it for me, erasing any lingering doubts which remained.

'So where's Roger?'

Before I could reply, the man himself answered. 'I'm here. Was starting to wonder where my coffee was getting to.'

I rolled my eyes at his ungracious greeting of his roommate, but one look in his direction sent my mouth curving upwards again in the smile which had never been far from my face in the last few days. Mark and Roger didn't have the kind of relationship where they poured their hearts out to each other at the earliest opportunity. Now, as they nodded a welcome, I knew that if they ever discussed everything that had happened in the last year, it would be at the most unexpected moment and that I would never be privy to it. For now, small talk sufficed.

'How's the family?' Roger asked, as he accepted the coffee I gave to him, slipping his other arm around my waist as though there wasn't any other place for it to be. The fact that his hand came to a halt around the hem of the sweatshirt was something I hoped Mark wouldn't notice.

Mark groaned good-naturedly, rolling his eyes. 'Cindy's having a baby.'

'Another one?' Roger's voice was incredulous. 'That's what, twelve?'

'Four,' Mark corrected him, but his smile widened at his friend's horror. 'Well, you know, Christmas isn't Christmas without her being pregnant. It's like not having a turkey. How are your folks?'

'Yeah, good.' A sip of coffee ended that line of enquiry and I could see why. Too much had happened in Red Hook this holiday to summarise in a few words. Besides, it must have been obvious to Mark that whatever had happened, Roger was different, from the way he was meeting his roommate's eye to how he was standing as if he had every right in the world to be there, comfortable in his skin for the first time in so long. I pressed myself slightly closer towards him as a rush of affection for him washed over me, something helped along by the way his thumb slid up my thigh underneath the hem of the sweater. A quick glance at his face showed me that Mark's presence in the apartment wouldn't change his mind about the best way to spend the morning, and I hastily untangled myself from his grasp.

'I should have a shower,' I said. 'You can have that,' I added, nodding at the cup of coffee Mark was still holding. 'It's good to see you. We should have dinner or something tonight.' It was impossible to miss Roger's widened eyes at the thought of the plans I was making which didn't involve returning immediately to bed, and I smiled somewhat mischievously. 'Could you pop out to the car and get the bags, Rog?'

'_Pop_?' He raised his eyebrows at my choice of phrase, something I ignored as I headed to the bathroom.

Just before I closed the door, I heard Mark speak. '_Rog_?' I showered with a smile on my face.

* * *

><p>I dressed in a denim shirt over a pair of black leggings, groaning when I realised that Roger had left the bag with my hairdryer in it in the car. It looked like it would be yet another bad hair day. I did what I could with my make-up, before heading back out into the living area where Mark was already fiddling with his camera.<p>

'Couldn't that wait any longer?' I teased, pouring a cup of coffee from the cafetiere, realising how much I'd missed Mark's superior coffee making skills over the last few days.

'Cindy wants a copy.' Mark rolled his eyes again at the mention of his sister. 'So she can put it on the shelf alongside all the other Christmases and birthdays and Hannukahs and Thanksgivings. It's the only time my family see my camera as having a point.' He gave me a sidelong glance as I sat down on the sofa beside him. 'So you bought Roger the guitar, huh?'

I glanced over at where the guitar was propped up against the wall as though it had never been away. 'Yes. What?' I added, as Mark nodded slowly, a smile creeping across his face again. 'What?'

'Nothing. Just…' He shook his head, turning his attention away from his camera to look at me. 'You look good.'

'I look awful,' I replied immediately, deliberately misunderstanding what he was saying as I picked at my hair disappointedly. 'My hair's a mess.'

'Your hair looks good. I like it curly.'

'Has Roger put you up to this? He keeps on and on about my hair.' It had been one of his most frequent comments over the last few days, how much he adored the wild nature of my hair when it was left to its own devices. I remained unconvinced.

'No! Honestly, it looks great. I wasn't talking about that anyway.' Mark tried another tack. 'Roger looks good too.'

That was something I couldn't deny. In the space of a few days, the very way Roger looked had changed. He'd always had the power to make me catch my breath from one look out of those eyes, but now there was no edge attached to it, no uncertainty over what it all meant. It was as though all those talks and shared moments had opened him up, rubbing away the layers of protection he'd built around himself for so long, and just leaving him. I couldn't explain the physical changes – he was no taller than before, his features remained the same as they always had. He wore the same old clothes. And yet, he was…

'Happy.' Mark supplied the word I'd been scrambling for. 'He looks happy.'

I knew it was true, and smiled again, a blush spreading over my face. In an unsuccessful attempt to change the subject, I asked, 'Where is he, anyway?'

'He went out to get some cigarettes. That can be your next achievement.'

'No. He wouldn't stop for Mimi.'

I caught Mark's look of surprise that I'd spoken the name without any hesitation. 'He told you about her?'

'And April. And… everything. It's fine,' I assured him, a little shocked to find that it really was. 'Honestly.'

Mark looked as though he was about to say more. Perhaps he wanted to talk about the two women, to say the things he'd bottled up all the years he'd been putting Roger back together. April had been popular, Roger had said as much. It hadn't just been him who had been destroyed when these women had left.

The door slid open.

'Are you sure you want to go out there today? It's freezing.' Roger came to a halt as he saw the two of us on the sofa together, and his eyes shifted between us, that old wariness washing across his face. I could only imagine the number of times he'd have come back to the loft to find Mark discussing him with someone else, the concern constantly being mistaken for meddling and interfering. For Roger, I was momentarily just another one in a long line of traitors, and I hated myself for it.

In a split second decision, I found the words I hoped would restore the smile to his face. 'We were just talking about you.'

It was the right decision. He smiled slowly, giving a small snort of laughter, before heading towards the bathroom.

'And we're definitely going out,' I added to his departing back. Glancing back at Mark, I saw him give me an approving smile, before turning back to his camera.


	39. Chapter 39

**This is quite a long one, but after this I've caught myself up so there might be a bit of a wait for the next chapter - life has been rather busy of late! Still struggling a bit with cheerful Roger, so let me know if he seems believable.**

* * *

><p>Once Roger had got over his aversion to 'the tourist stuff' he threw himself into his new role as guide. Occasionally he'd roll his eyes at a comment I made, moaning good-naturedly about the number of photos I took on the disposable camera he'd grudgingly bought for me, but mostly he seemed as swept up in the moment as I was. And I was completely enraptured by the city, bowled over again by the sheer fact of being in New York City. This was the experience I'd craved that summer, this sense of being a part of something much bigger. Having my hand firmly linked through Roger's was simply a bonus.<p>

That first day we didn't stray too far from home, walking through the Lower East Side and taking in the quirky shops and sights found there. It wasn't quite what I'd had in mind when I said that I wanted to do 'the tourist stuff', but I needed to break him in gently. There would be time for the rest of it.

By the evening, I'd almost forgotten about my promise to Mark to have dinner with him. In truth, my mind had in fact wandered down the same path Roger's had long ago and I was wondering whether food was really necessary before bed after all. Roger had clearly already decided that it wasn't.

'Roger!' I laughed, almost tripping backwards up the stairs to the loft as he pulled me towards him. 'Careful! You almost had me over then! Roger!' I ducked my head as he made to kiss me again as we slid the door open and stumbled into the loft and…

'Well. I think it's safe to say he's telling the truth.' Joanne raised an eyebrow at us as Maureen's mouth fell open partway through a verbal attack upon Mark, who looked at us with some degree of gratitude and just a hint of smugness.

For our part, we glanced at each other, and tried to hide the giggles which instantly sprang to our lips.

'Oh my God!' Maureen leapt up out of her seat, her disagreement with Mark instantly forgotten. 'Mark was just saying that you two… but I didn't believe him… I didn't… Oh my God!' Within seconds, she'd hugged us both, wildly and enthusiastically. 'This is amazing! Isn't this amazing, Pookie?'

Joanne, no less pleased for us but never as effusive as her girlfriend, gave us both a smile. 'Yes, Maureen. Amazing.' She gave me a quick wink, so quick that I almost missed it.

'So what happened, who asked who out?' Maureen was almost hopping from foot to foot, a million miles away from the forlorn character I'd last seen before Christmas. The smile on my face stretched even wider, relieved to find that she still had the power to bounce back from whatever life threw at her. For a time, I'd wondered if Collins's death had changed her irrevocably. I was glad it hadn't.

'Maureen!'

'What?' Maureen shot Joanne a look of complete innocence. 'I'm only _asking_.'

'Well you're not getting an answer,' Roger said finally, winking at me, knowing that his refusal to reveal all would drive her insane. 'Beer anyone?'

'We were just heading out actually.' Mark stood up. 'We thought we'd grab a bite to eat. You coming?'

As one, we all turned to glance at Roger, a collected intake of breath as we waited for his verdict.

It took a moment for him to notice. Then he looked between us, bemused. 'What? Sounds good. Where we going?'

And so it continued, day after day, as we covered miles of the city on foot. Roger seemed determined not to let me miss out on anything, forcing me up the Empire State Building even as I protested that I hated heights and it was fine from the ground. The city was bustling with those people who had opted to spend their holiday season in the metropolis, marvelling at the lights and the colours. By the time New Year's Eve rolled around, real life had faded away in comparison to this one.

Of course, it couldn't last.

* * *

><p>Despite being aware of Roger's presence behind me as I put on another layer of mascara, I ignored him and concentrated on the job at hand. Only when he spoke did I acknowledge him, turning my head to prompt him when he said, 'You're sure we really have to go out tonight?' After a pause he continued, with one of those lazy contented smiles that had been so common over the last few days. 'I can think of several things we could do without even leaving the apartment.'<p>

I glanced down at the tight red satin dress I'd bought during one of our tours of Manhattan that week. It wasn't my usual style and yet Roger's reaction both now and when I'd tried it on in the shop had convinced me to give my dad's credit card one last battering. It was the first dress I'd ever worn that made me feel like a real adult and it was hard to keep the self-satisfied smile from my face. Then I remembered that I was supposed to be annoyed with him and I turned back to my make-up.

When he still lingered in the doorway behind me, I slowly and deliberately put the lid back onto my lipstick before saying, 'You're late. You should get changed.'

He didn't reply, but must have sensed my controlled irritation as he crossed the room and sat down beside me, one arm snaking around my waist at precisely the spot he knew made my stomach swoop and my legs tremble even when I was sitting down. Ignoring the pointed way I attempted to continue applying blusher despite having more than enough on already, he placed a kiss on my cheek, before moving his mouth further down my neck to my exposed shoulder.

'Roger.' I tried to shrug him off, spilling powder onto the floor as I did so. He paid no attention. 'Roger!' It was only as his other hand slid around my waist that the giggles came. I dropped the compact onto the floor as we tumbled onto the bed, his mouth already smudging my carefully applied lipstick.

'This isn't getting us anywhere,' I reprimanded him softly after a few seconds, our noses almost touching. His hands rested lightly on my waist now, proprietorial but not asking for much more than this, this moment of connection after the strange day he'd had. The determination to be cool towards him this evening had now dissipated. Rather than demanding answers, for the moment I was as contented as he was.

Our moment was interrupted.

'Roger? Cat?' Mark's voice travelled from the living area through the ajar door. Roger placed a finger on my lips, but when no answer came, Mark carried on regardless. 'We ought to get going soon, guys. We don't want to be late.' A pause. 'I'm gonna go get a bottle of wine. Be back in a minute.'

We heard the loft door slide shut behind him. Roger rolled his eyes.

'Don't, he's been worried about you.'

'Did he say that?'

'Does he ever?' I gave Roger a pointed look, before dropping my gaze. Fiddling with the toggles on his sweatshirt, I broached the issue which had caused his best friend and me to become concerned that afternoon. 'Where have you been all day?'

As I lifted my eyes to study his face, it was his turn to avoid my gaze. 'Here and there.' I clearly didn't hide my sigh as well as I should have done, as he made the effort to look me in the eye. 'Honestly, Cat, it's nothing to worry about. It's just me.'

'That's what worries me,' I said, half-teasing, playing with the hair which curled over his collar. 'It's just, when everybody else came back, and you didn't… It just…'

'I know.' Roger gave me a small smile by way of apology. 'I needed some space.'

It was an excuse I'd hear time and time again in the future. That he'd choose to walk away at moments like this, preferring his own company to sharing any of it with me, would never quite stop hurting. Still, I tried to swallow it down and concentrate on his arms around me now. Mark wouldn't be gone long, and Roger had yet to even get showered, let alone changed, but still I was reluctant to hurry him. I could partially see his point; staying in seemed much more attractive than going out, especially right now. We'd spent almost every waking minute of the last week together, and all of the frankly infrequent sleeping ones, and yet the last few hours had felt lonely rather than refreshing. I could have happily stayed exactly where we were.

My next words ruined the calm. 'How was today?'

'Fine.'

'Rog.' I ran a finger along his jawline, sensing the tension there. 'Talk to me. Come on.'

He closed his eyes and gave a deep sigh which sounded as though it came from the very soles of his feet. Opening them again, he said in a much smaller voice, 'It was… difficult. More than I expected it to be.' He tightened his hold on my waist a little more. 'I wish you'd been there.'

'Me too,' I said, knowing as I said it that it wasn't strictly true. One look at Mark, Maureen and Joanne's faces when they'd come back from the will reading had made me glad that I hadn't gone. Roger, of course, had insisted beforehand that he'd be fine, just fine, I needn't worry about going with him… and then he'd vanished into the New York crowds for the entire afternoon without so much as a 'see you later' to anybody. At least he was admitting his mistake now.

I'd already learnt from the others that there had been little left to anybody. 'Nothing to leave,' Mark had pointed out, reminding us all of how Collins had lived a hand-to-mouth existence, any unexpected windfalls being immediately put to use on treats for his friends or simply given away to those he deemed worthy causes. Money and possessions had barely registered on his radar other than a way to show he cared. They'd returned from the solicitors' office today clutching strange objects of little value to anybody but their new owners: Maureen had a battered programme from her first theatre performance, Mark had a collection of photographs from varying occasions when he'd been persuaded to let someone else have a go at capturing the moment. Joanne had received a set of worn reference books, Collins nodding towards their shared love of facts and knowledge. Any remaining money had gone directly to charity. Such acts only made Collins's absence that more painful for everybody, and Maureen and Joanne had left the loft after only a short stay that afternoon, reminding us of the plans for that evening. Mark had withdrawn into himself. Nobody had said what Collins had left to Roger and I wasn't quite sure how to ask. I didn't even know if he wanted me to. His silence now didn't give me many clues either way.

'I miss him.'

The words sounded as though they'd been pulled from deep down inside him, rushed and weighty at the same time. They caught me a little by surprise and so it was a few seconds before I was able to think of a response, and even then I wasn't sure that what I was saying was suitable or even adequate. 'I know. Me too. Or at least… I mean…' I babbled, knowing any relationship I'd had with Collins didn't come close to Roger's. 'I just meant…'

'I know.' A small smile, more in his eyes than his mouth, lifted his face. With perhaps more force than was necessary, he pressed his lips against mine again, that never-ending hunger momentarily blocking out all sense of deadlines and impending tardiness. When we finally pulled away from each other, I found myself on my back, a leg wrapped around one of his and my lipstick well and truly ruined.

'You're a terrible influence, Davis,' I said, mock-grumpy, as I rolled to a sitting position and surveyed the damage in the mirror. 'My hair's wrecked.'

'I like it when it's like that.' Roger leaned up on his elbows and gave me a cheeky grin in the mirror. 'You look like you've just got out of bed.'

I rolled my eyes as we heard the loft door crash open again. 'That's Mark. Will you go and have a shower please?'

'So you're adamant we have to go tonight? You're sure I can't persuade you otherwise?'

I swatted his hands away as he made to pull me down beside him again. 'Roger! We are going, we are going to enjoy ourselves. Now go and have a shower.'

He followed my directions with only one last doleful gaze in my direction. I turned my attention back to rectifying the mess he'd made of my hair and make-up. There was no way I was arriving at a New Year's party in New York without looking perfect. It would have been much easier to fix if I hadn't had to keep biting down on my lips to stop the ridiculous smile spreading any further.

* * *

><p>In some ways, I was approaching this party with as much trepidation as Roger. The last party I'd attended at Joanne and Maureen's apartment should have been enough to put me off them for life, besides which, those four walls had housed a lot of misery in the last few weeks. Still, I reasoned, as the yellow cab turned out of Avenue A, until that week, setting foot in the loft had seemed beyond me. Memories could be changed. Even so, I was grateful to have Roger's fingers linked through mine.<p>

Mark had been twitching beside me ever since we got into the cab. Now, with one last awkward shift, he leaned forward. 'Actually, could we stop by somewhere else on the way? Second and twentieth?' His gaze immediately flew out of the window, deliberately ignoring the curious gazes he must have been aware of on both our faces.

'Mark?' Roger asked eventually, after some nudging from me. 'Are we picking somebody up?'

'It's just…' He shrugged. 'Just Stacey.'

'Stacey?' Roger exclaimed before I could elbow him in the ribs. 'Ow!'

'I asked Maureen if she could come, she's at a loose end tonight. Why? Is it a problem for you?' Mark had rarely sounded more defensive. It was costing him a lot to do this, I knew, especially on top of the day he'd had.

'No. It's… fine.' I nodded, careful not to go too overboard, remembering the embarrassment when Maureen had declared mine and Roger's reunion 'amazing'. It seemed the right note to hit as we continued in amiable enough silence until the cab pulled up outside Stacey's building.

'Did you know?' I asked Roger when Mark jumped out of the cab to ring the buzzer.

'Did I sound like I did? I think you've bruised something by the way.'

'Poor baby. Do you think he's been seeing her long?'

'No idea. Why the twenty questions?' As I blushed, he kissed my cheek. Unprompted, he murmured, 'I love you,' and I felt any last anxiety about the evening melt away. Maybe tonight was going to be alright. Maybe even perfect.

* * *

><p>Rubbing Maureen's back as she was sick for the third time, I tried to remember what it was people said about famous last words. I'd certainly spent the last twenty minutes paying for my earlier optimism, and there didn't seem much chance of escape in the near future. I slid down to sit on the thankfully spotlessly clean floor as my knees started complaining.<p>

Maureen had been more than merry before we'd even arrived, her eye make-up already smudged and her always loud voice audible above all of her guests and music. Only Roger's hand firmly welded to mine for those first few moments of the party had stopped it from being a horrible re-run of that evening last summer.

Now Maureen took a few deep gulps of air. 'Sorry,' she mumbled, her head slumping onto the toilet seat. 'Sorry Cat.'

'It's alright.' I continued rubbing her back. 'How do you feel?'

'Like shit.' She at least managed a snort of laughter without being sick again. With a heavy sigh, she sat upright, gingerly leaning back against the opposite wall. When her stomach managed to stay where it belonged, she seemed to relax. 'Fuck. I'm thirty. When am I gonna learn?'

'I thought you were only twenty-nine,' I teased.

Maureen at least had the good grace to roll her eyes. 'Shut up. Easy for you to say, what are you, like, nineteen?' She groaned and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. 'I'm getting too old for this.'

It was a Maureen I'd never seen before, not even after Collins's death. Then, she'd been devastated and like a small child wanting comfort from any source. Now, for the first time, she was a woman realising she couldn't live forever. It was like being with a different person altogether. Where I'd always felt inadequate around her before, dazzled by her very being, now I felt like this was somebody I could talk to.

'You look great by the way,' she added now. 'Like, stunning.'

I looked down at the dress which was hitched up even further now I was sitting on the floor. For a split second, I considered pulling it down and hiding behind my hair, shrugging the compliment off. Then I decided to take a leaf out of Maureen's normal book. 'Thank you.'

'I mean, like, seriously.' It was clear that not all of the alcohol was out of her system yet, as she waved her hands around exaggeratedly. 'Five years ago, it would have been me that nobody could keep their hands off. And now…' She gestured towards me with an air of world-weariness.

I choked off a laugh. 'It's not as though anybody's found it difficult to keep their hands off of me tonight.'

'Only cause Roger's not taken his eyes off you once. He's got this whole hungry eyes thing going on, like he'd kill anyone who so much as brushed against you. I'm serious!' she insisted when I tried to laugh that off too. 'He's totally giving off these killer vibes.'

I didn't remark on how disconcerting that image was. In truth, I'd noticed exactly what Maureen was talking about. Whilst I'd stayed close to Roger's side for the first few minutes of the party, as time went on we found ourselves being pulled in different directions. People I'd spent time with in the summer expressed surprise at my return to the city, keen to learn what had happened to me in the interim, whilst Roger surrounded himself with a small circle of old friends. I tried to ignore the fact that none of these people who were claiming to have been devastated by Collins's death hadn't so much as sent a wreath on the day of the funeral; I was trying to be less judgemental. Every time I found the words on the tip of my tongue, I glanced over at Roger, to find his eyes locked onto mine. Whether he ever granted his companions his full attention was unclear and, I realised, entirely irrelevant to me. Roger could look at me all evening if he liked.

'You and him,' Maureen said now, with a jerk of her head which almost caused a nasty accident with the bathroom wall. 'I'm happy. Not that you need my approval,' she added hastily, continuing to behave in a most un-Maureen-like way. 'Joanne's always reminding me of that. It's just… I am happy.' Then, in more typical style, she continued, 'So are you moving into the loft or back to your apartment? Or are you getting a place together?'

I was momentarily blindsided and frowned, wondering if the tiny glass of sparkling wine I'd had upon arrival at the party had gone to my head. 'Moving?' I managed eventually, trying to make some sense of what she was saying.

'Yeah, moving.' Maureen gave a loud yawn. 'You know, to New York. I mean, you are staying.'

Her words hung in the air between us and I wondered why it had never occurred to me before. Maureen's eyes were already closed, her mouth hanging slightly open, barely aware she'd spoken, let alone that she was still awaiting an answer. The lingering silence was for me alone to endure as I tried and failed to find the words to respond.

The knock on the door was almost, but not quite, a relief.

'Cat?'

I responded automatically to Roger's voice, torn between the thrill which coursed through me every time I heard it, and the sudden realisation that I knew exactly what I'd say to Maureen if she was awake, an answer that made seeing him right now one of the most difficult things I could imagine. Even so, I slid the bolt back and opened the door.

'You okay?' His eyes moved quickly from head to toe and back again, assessing me for any injuries or problems. That level of concern so clearly displayed made the thoughts in my head seem even more traitorous.

I nodded my head. 'I'm fine. It's Maureen.' I gestured at where she was slumped, her head resting on her chest and her eyes now firmly closed. Despite myself, I couldn't help a smile spreading across my face as Roger began to chuckle. 'Don't,' I protested even as I giggled myself. 'She's been sick.'

'I wish Mark was here with that camera,' was all Roger said. Then he moved into the bathroom properly. 'I suppose we should get her up. Give me a hand.'

It seemed so easy for him to scoop Maureen up off of the floor and half-carry her from the bathroom and to her bedroom. I rather uselessly put an arm around her waist, more of a hindrance than a help. This was what I should have done ages ago, I realised, rather than allowing her to slump asleep on the bathroom floor. Maureen didn't even wake up as Roger laid her down on the bed and pulled a blanket over the top of her. As if it were the logical thing to do, he placed the bin near the bed and then dimmed the lights; it seemed he'd picked up a tip or two from Mark after all those years of being looked after.

'She is gonna have one hell of a hangover in the morning.'

I nodded.

He glanced down at me, sliding an arm around my waist. 'You sure you're okay?'

'Yes, of course.' I nodded again, perhaps too emphatically as he looked doubtful. 'I'm just worried about Maureen.'

'She'll be okay. It's only what she usually does.' Roger smiled that fond kind smile which had been increasingly present in our lives over the last few days. It was as though he'd finally allowed himself to grow attached to people again after locking himself away for so long. However I tried to deny it, that was at least partially down to me. It only made my stomach churn that bit more as Maureen's words came back to me again: _I mean, you are staying. _It had been a statement, not a question, an assumption that things would stay as they were now, at this very minute, all of us locked together in a never-ending cycle of parties and drunken ramblings and endless waiting for Roger to fall off the wagon. It was how they'd all lived for the past ten years and it had worked, after a fashion, for them. But for me…

'Are you sure you're okay?'

'Yes!' I instantly wanted to bite the word back as it hit him with more force than I'd intended. The expression which washed over his face, vague disappointment, made me wish I'd been honest. Sighing, I added, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean…'

'It's cool.'

It wasn't and I knew it, but I let it go. As Maureen let out a snore, I asked, 'What made you come and find me?'

'Just wondered where you'd got to. Hadn't seen you for a while.' His lips grazed my forehead. 'I got lonely.'

'With all those people out there?' I teased. He didn't reply but nuzzled further into my neck. Much as I wanted to give in and enjoy the moment, Maureen's words had shattered it for me. We'd lived the last few days without ever thinking about the future. I wished it had stayed like that. 'Where's Mark?' I asked, reluctantly edging away from his more amorous advances.

Roger's barely contained sigh didn't pass me by. 'With Stacey somewhere.'

'Hey.' I nudged him. 'Can't you just be happy for him?'

'Like Maureen's happy for us?' His answer came so suddenly that it took me several seconds to realise what he was saying. When the penny dropped, I was unable to do anything but gaze at him, mouth open, that disappointment making a reappearance.

'How… how long were you…?'

'Long enough.' Roger avoided my eyes and instead stared over at Maureen's sleeping form. After a pause, he said, 'Do you want to go for a walk?'

In silence, I nodded, and without another word, he took my hand and led me through the apartment. The party was as lively as it had ever been and, sure enough, Mark and Stacey were nowhere to be seen. Pausing only to pick up my coat, Roger headed for the door, pulling me in his wake, a steady pressure which told me that I had no choice but to go with him. If I resisted now, the conversation we were about to have would never need to happen. There'd be no decisions left to make.

It was colder outside than I'd expected, that Arctic chill setting in over the city again. I shivered even inside the coat Roger handed to me before he fumbled through his pockets for his cigarettes.

'Is this just an excuse for that?' I asked weakly, knowing that the time for teasing had long passed. He didn't respond as he concentrated on lighting a cigarette. Only when he held out his hand for mine did I dare to believe that this might be alright. Even so, we walked in silence for several minutes until we finally reached a small park in the midst of all the apartment blocks. Around us, we could hear snippets of other people's New Years, soundtracked by Ace of Bass and R-Kelly. Maureen and Joanne's party already seemed an age away as we sat down on a bench.

Roger smoked wordlessly for a few minutes. Then, eventually, he spoke. 'So when are you going home?'

'I didn't say….' I began to protest but as that pained look passed over his face again, I tried to do what we'd promised we would from now on: I'd tell the truth. 'I don't know. I… I haven't really thought about it.'

He nodded, gazing out over the park at where a man was walking a dog. In the absence of any response, I continued.

'I'm sorry.'

Only then did he speak. 'Sorry? What are you sorry for?'

'For leaving? For… I don't know… for not staying? Roger, if I could I would, I just…'

'You can't,' he interrupted me, lifting his eyes to mine finally and there was no hint of reproach there. Rather, there was a sense of understanding, a warmth which made tears rise up in my eyes. 'I know. I've always known. I wondered when you'd realise it.'

'You knew?'

'I knew you wouldn't… couldn't… stay here.' He gestured around. 'Who'd want to, for fuck's sake? Who'd choose to stay here?'

'You did.'

He snorted. 'Yeah, and I'm known for making great choices. You don't want to make the same stupid mistakes I have, Cat. I don't blame you,' he added softly.

That Roger had forgiven me for something I hadn't even done yet was beside the point right now; it barely registered. Much more pressing was the way his arm had crept around my waist, finding the place which seemed to belong to him just as much as me now. The familiar scent of cigarettes surrounded us and I bit my lip as I finally managed to say, 'But… but what about… us?'

My question hung in the air along with the smoke as Roger took several long drags and then dropped the butt to the ground, grinding it with his heel. When he did speak, his voice was much lower than before and for a few minutes, I wondered what this had to with what I'd said.

'I walked for hours today. Not anywhere in particular, just… around. I didn't quite know where to go.' He paused before saying, 'I bumped into some old friends.'

The phrase acted like a bell to a dog. 'Old friends? You mean…?'

'My old dealers.' Roger shrugged as if it was no big deal when we both knew it was. 'We talked.'

'And?'

'And nothing.' He shot me a sideways look and I instantly felt guilty for doubting him. 'I mean… I could have done. A few years ago I probably would have done. But not now.'

'Why?'

He snorted. 'You really need to ask? You, you idiot. It's all because of you.' He gave another snort of laughter, perhaps out of embarrassment of how clumsily he'd put it. 'And the stupid thing is, Collins knew. Collins always knew.' All I could give him was a quizzical look. 'You never asked what he left me,' he reminded me with a small smile.

'What?'

'A letter. Basically telling me to sort my life out.' Roger chuckled again. Then added, 'And a plane ticket to England.'

For several seconds, all I could do was blink and try not to let my mouth hang open in a way I knew my mother would dislike. The very mention of England was enough to make my voice more high-pitched when it did return. 'England? You're… coming to… England?'

'If you'll have me.'

Roger in England. The concept seemed so alien. There was a certain image of him in my head which I had carried throughout the last six months, never quite letting go of him. It was so specific, down to the clothes he wore and the laughter lines on his face. Whenever I thought about him, I thought about this place, this city. It was as much a part of him as the denim jacket. To imagine him transplanted thousands of miles away was hard. To try to picture him in my parents' living room amongst the sea of cream cushions was even harder. And yet… and yet, trying to imagine going back to all of that without him, pretending as though none of this had ever happened all over again… that was impossible.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I gave him the kiss he'd been hankering for all evening, not caring who saw us on that bench together. As his ice cold hands slid up the skirt of my dress, though, some of the decorum my parents had spent a lifetime drilling into me returned, and I buried my head in his shoulder instead, even as I giggled helplessly at the situation.

'Is that a yes?'

I nodded. 'Yes. Please.'

'Even if I'll be a huge disappointment to your parents?'

'Even if.' I lifted my head to smile at him. 'I've rarely been anything but a disappointment to them.'

'I've said it before. Your mother's an idiot.'

Grinning, I pressed my nose against his. 'You might not want to say that to her face.'

He smiled back and kissed me again. 'Noted. Now,' he said, standing up abruptly and pulling me to my feet beside him. 'Shall we go back to the party?'

It was selfish after the conversation we'd just had. Within weeks, possibly sooner, I'd have Roger to myself as much as I wanted; whilst I knew Mark was loyal, moving to England would stretch even the bounds of his devotion. I should have been able to share him for a little longer. But wrapped up in his arms in a snowy park in Manhattan, any selfless thoughts vanished and I knew there was only one way I wanted to celebrate this particular New Year.

'Let's go home,' I whispered.

The smile on Roger's face told me I'd answered correctly.


	40. Chapter 40

**A much shorter, and I'm not sure as good, chapter than recently. I'm not a fan of the second half of the chapter but it's taken me days to wrangle with it so I decided to just get rid. Reviews appreciated.**

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><p>Before I could roll over and wish Roger a happy new year for the second time, I knew that he'd gone. It was less shock and more disappointment that set in as I placed my hand in the indentation he'd left in the old mattress beside me. Six months ago I'd have assumed that such a Sunday morning disappearance was connected to religion or perhaps a dedication to personal fitness. Now, knowing so much more about his life than I'd ever dreamt of, I was fairly certain it was neither of those things. It didn't leave me with any clearer idea of why he was missing this morning though.<p>

It took me a while to notice the package he'd left on his pillow. A reminder of the first night we'd slept side by side, I thought, unable to keep a smile off my face as I wondered exactly when Roger Davis had become so sentimental. Reaching out for it, I wondered what it would say. It was hard to imagine there was much else he could say, or do, after the way we'd spent last night.

Opening the envelope, I first pulled out a cassette tape which fell onto the bed. There were no distinguishing features about it, nothing to indicate what was on it, and so I turned my attention to the folded scrap of paper inside the envelope. Roger's spidery scrawl covered one side of it, the words crammed together as though he'd found himself with more to say than he'd expected.

_Gone out. There's something I have to do. But I found this yesterday – I thought you might like to hear it. It's not much, but it took a year. I should have played it you before only I haven't listened to it in ages. I couldn't bear to. But now I can. I wrote it for Mimi. I don't know that she ever really liked it. Maybe you will._

_Be back soon. X._

I must have read the note three times, hoping that there was something hidden between the lines which would explain what 'this' was. Only when I'd padded out of the bedroom and placed the tape in the stereo in the living room did it become clear exactly what he'd left for me. Sid had described it as a 'crime against music'. I could partially see why someone who surrounded himself with Stones memorabilia might think that, but by the time the tape clicked to a stop, leaving the apartment silent in the January sunshine, I felt as though the final piece of the puzzle that was Roger Davis had fallen into place. The song had taken me away somewhere else miles away from this particular morning.

It was only when Roger spoke that I came back.

'You got up eventually then?' He was leaning against the door frame, his reappearance completely masked by the dying chords of the song. My surprise at his return must have shown as he crossed the distance between us as if eager to reassure me. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to make you jump.'

'You didn't.' I shook my head, my thoughts still partially in another time and place. I tried to connect the man in front of me now with the words I'd heard on the tape. It had all taken place here all those years ago. Much as I'd enjoyed the song and was glad he'd finally shared this last small piece of himself with me, it was with a sudden rush of gratitude that I realised this apartment wouldn't be our home for much longer.

He hesitated several feet away from me, his eyes flying to the stereo and back to me. 'So you… you listened to it then?'

I nodded.

'Crap, isn't it?' He grinned nervously. 'Can you believe people bought it? What?' he demanded when I rolled my eyes.

'You. You're so…' Struggling for the right word, I closed the distance between us and put my hands around his waist. 'So…'

'So?' Roger laid his forehead against mine, mimicking my voice with a smile.

'So stupid.'

'Thanks.'

'I don't mean like that, I mean…' I sighed. Trying to put it into words was too difficult; there was clearly a reason why Roger had opted to let the music speak for itself. Perhaps that was my point. 'It was… more than a song, wasn't it?'

After a pause, he spoke with a small catch in his voice. 'Yeah. Yeah, it was.'

Wordlessly, I wrapped my arms more tightly around him, pressing myself along the length of his body and burying my head in his shoulder. He squeezed me back, lifting my feet clear off the floor and carrying me to the sofa where we curled up together.

'Rog?'

'Mmm?' he murmured into my hair as he held me closely to him.

'Two questions.'

'Mmmm?' It sounded my sceptical this time and I deliberately ignored the raised eyebrows I could see out of the corner of my eye, instead burrowing myself more firmly inside his arms.

'Where have you been this morning?'

The usual long pause followed my question. I left it alone; an answer would come sooner or later, of that I felt sure. I couldn't imagine there was anything he wouldn't tell me anymore.

'It's this thing,' he began finally, a little awkwardly as usual. 'Like a… meeting. It's called Life Support. It's for… for people with HIV. Kind of a support… thing.' He shrugged. 'I go along sometimes.'

'Last summer.' I turned my head to meet his eyes as I spoke. 'You went last summer a few times. Didn't you?'

He nodded. 'A couple of times. I'm not really a regular. Collins used to go a lot. And… Angel, when… I go when I need to.'

'And you needed to this morning?' I studied his face for a hint of what had taken him from the bed to sit in a circle with people he didn't especially like or want to be seen with. It seemed an illogical step given the decision we'd come to the previous night.

'Yeah. Not in a bad way.' Roger smiled and kissed the side of my head. 'Not in a bad way, Cat. I wanted to talk to someone. I wanted to tell someone. About you.'

'Me?'

'You.' The smile remained and he pulled me even closer towards him. 'Is that okay?'

There was little I could do other than return his smile. 'I suppose.'

'Good.' He kissed me briefly. 'Now. What was the second question?'

I grinned wickedly. 'When are you going to write a song for me?'

The laughter descended quickly into something else. The old mattress had a few more indentations put into it that morning.

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><p>For once, Roger listened to my nagging and did as I asked, telling Mark of our plans almost before the filmmaker had got in the front door that evening. His absence had only made my need for him to know more pressing and the sheer relief when I heard Roger revealing the decisions we'd made coursed through me like a drug. I pressed my head against the bedroom door as Mark made agreeing noises and only emerged when their conversation turned to the previous evening.<p>

'Before you ask, no I didn't stay at Stacey's,' Mark directed his comment at me as I walked into the living room. 'And yes, I am seeing her tomorrow night.'

'I wasn't going to say anything!' I protested, but couldn't help exchanging a grin with Roger as he slipped his arm around my waist.

'Of course you weren't.' Mark rolled his eyes. 'Where did you two get to last night anyway?'

'There was something we had to do.' Roger shrugged casually and nuzzled my neck.

Mark looked between us slowly before nodding. When he spoke, the lightness had gone, replaced with something different, something sadder. 'Yeah. Course there was.' Somehow, his words made the guilt I'd been carrying all day return in a rush and before I could think clearly, I'd detangled myself from Roger's embrace, as though that would somehow make everything better.

It didn't; it just made Roger regard me with a puzzled look before he said, 'So did we miss much last night?'

'No. Nothing.'

An awkward silence followed.

Then, 'So shall I get something in for dinner? Chinese?' Roger looked between Mark and me as we said nothing. 'Yes?'

'Sure.' Mark nodded finally. 'Sounds good. Cat?'

I nodded mutely. It was a decision I hadn't fully thought through, as within minutes, Roger had disappeared out of the door and left Mark and me alone. For several seconds I stood uneasily and tried to think about what to say. Now it didn't seem like it had been such a good idea to have left it to Roger to break the news. I should have been more courageous.

'I'm going to take a shower,' Mark said, already heading towards the bathroom.

Better late than never.

'I'm sorry.' My stomach tensed up after I'd spoken, waiting for Mark's reply.

He hesitated and then turned to look at me. 'Sorry?' He frowned. 'For what?'

'For…' I gestured vaguely, hoping Mark would be able to fill in the blanks for himself. His expression suggested that he couldn't. Eventually it seemed there was no other option than to say it as basically as possible. 'I'm sorry for taking Roger away.'

Mark's reaction wasn't exactly what I'd expected. 'You're… sorry?' His lips twitched into a grin. 'For…?' Laughter overtook his words and for a few moments he was unable to say anything else. Finally, he said, 'Don't be stupid, Cat.' Before I could protest that I wasn't being stupid, he continued. 'You're not _taking him away_. You're… saving him. You don't need to apologise for that.'

My face flushed red again, that familiar assertion that I was doing something noble here feeling so wrong. 'I just meant…' I shrugged. 'He's your friend and…'

'And that's why you don't need to apologise.' Mark smiled at me. 'Cat, he's been happier than I've ever seen him lately. He's been like his old self again, more or less. If moving to England with you will help that… why would I be upset?'

'But what about you and this place?'

'Things change.' Mark shrugged. 'God, at least I know where he's going this time! Cat, seriously,' he added in a softer tone. 'Don't feel bad. He wants to be with you. I couldn't stop him if I wanted to. And I don't. So. Stop. Being. Stupid.' With his final words, he pulled me into a hug and I was able to breathe again. Gaining Mark's approval seemed like the last hurdle to overcome before we started our new life together.

The last hurdle apart from Roger meeting my parents, of course.


	41. Chapter 41

**Goodness it's been a long time since I updated! Testament to quite how hectic my life has been in the last couple of months. Still, I've gained the bug again and have a real desire to see Cat and Roger's story through. So here's the next installment.**

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><p>The taxi crunched away over the gravel of my parents' drive, leaving us standing in full view of the house surrounded by bags. The rest of Roger's belongings were to follow in the next few weeks when we'd settled a little more fully in England. He was going to exist on the essentials in the meantime – which seemed to include his guitar even though it hadn't, as yet, been so much as strummed.<p>

Right now, though, his attention was on something other than the belongings around our feet.

'_That_ is where you live?' He didn't take his eyes off of the house as he spoke.

'It's my parents' house,' I said a little cagily.

'But… this is where you _live_?'

Smiling, I nodded. 'Yes. But Roger, you grew up on a _farm_.'

'Yeah, but you've seen it! It's not exactly… _this_, is it?'

Roger's awe made me look at my childhood home with fresh eyes. I'd always known it was large and fairly impressive, but now I looked again, I realised quite how imposing a building it was. It stood in three acres of its own land and there had never been a night to my recollection in which every bedroom had been used. The immaculate gravel drive was just the beginning of 'Carter Towers', as Roger would jokingly refer to it in the future. Suddenly I wished I'd given my parents some prior warning of my arrival today. Or, more accurately, Roger's arrival.

With a heavier heart than I'd expected, I led the way towards the house, rifling through my handbag now for the keys. Long before I'd found them, the dogs were barking on the other side of the door, and before I could put the key into the lock, it had been opened from the inside.

'Catherine!' James looked only slightly more astonished to see me than I felt. I hadn't banked on bumping into my siblings today, hoping to attempt to explain things to my parents first without an audience. 'Were we… were we expecting you?'

I forced a smile onto my face. 'No, it was… a bit last minute,' I lied. Further conversation was momentarily halted as Chas and Dave achieved freedom and barrelled into both Roger and me. I crouched down to be greeted with snuffles and licks, whilst Roger was treated to the Labrador form of an interrogation. It was hardly an adequate warm up for what would follow later, but their wagging tails gave me hope that perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as I could imagine.

Now, James turned his attention to the stranger in front of him. I unfortunately caught his expression as he looked from the collar length hair to the scuffed boots and ripped jeans. Roger's offer to dress a bit more conservatively and smartly came back to me now and I half-wished I'd not talked him out of it in a fit of righteous indignation. Maybe it would have made these first few minutes easier if he had done. Then I felt horrible; I'd barely been back in England for two hours and already I was becoming Catherine again. This had to stop now.

Before my brother could recapture his impeccable manners, I got in first. 'James, this is Roger. He's…' I swallowed hard, digging deep for courage. We'd never used labels before, never identified exactly what we were to each other, and now it actually became important, none of them seemed adequate. Finally I settled on the most truthful. 'We're together.' Catching Roger's eye, it was clear that he couldn't add much more to it than that either.

It took James a couple of seconds to react, his face working overtime to contain his emotions. To his credit, he managed not to let his obvious surprise register too highly in his voice. 'Oh. Well… nice to meet you, Roger.' Roger shook his offered hand. 'It's freezing out here, come in.' I tried to ignore the fact that he was inviting us into my own home.

'Mum and Dad are in the living room,' James said as we slipped our shoes off in the hallway, our assorted bags taking up far less space than I'd anticipated. Even Roger's guitar seemed to have shrunk in the surroundings of my parents' house. It was an effort to remember how far I'd come since I'd last been here. How far we'd both come.

'Look, Catherine,' James said now, turning back towards me, and half blocking Roger out from the conversation with his body. It was the sort of conspiratorial whisper that I vaguely remembered from when we were younger. Whilst Amelia had always seemed out of reach for me, always that bit too far removed to ever share a real conversation with, there were only two years between James and me, and there had been times in the past when we'd come close to sharing the kind of relationship I knew existed between siblings somewhere. If he knew even a half of what had passed between Roger and me over the last year, I felt certain that he'd happily have punched Roger without hesitation for putting his little sister through all of that. It was that protectiveness which drove him to speak now. 'You… didn't say you were coming home, and you didn't mention…' His unsubtle glance at Roger filled in the blank there. 'I'm just saying,' he continued, but I'd heard enough already.

'You don't need to.' I gave him a firm smile. 'Shall we go through?'

My brother looked from me to Roger and back again, before turning and leading the way to the living room at the back of the house, as if I didn't already know the way. I decided to let that pass as it gave me the opportunity to have Roger's fingers laced through mine and to feel his solidity behind me as he leaned down to whisper in my ear.

'You okay?'

I lied and nodded. 'You?'

'Always.' It was almost certainly as much of a lie as mine had been, but I let that pass too.

In the seconds between James's arrival in the living room and our own entrance, it seemed that he'd filled my parents in enough for the colour to have drained from my mother's face and transfer itself threefold to my father's. The contrast between them would have been comical if it hadn't been so worrying. I tried to ignore the way their eyes swept over Roger and tightened my grip on his fingers until I was certain it must have hurt him. He didn't make a sound.

My mother broke the silence. 'Well. This is a surprise,' she commented, her words laced with triple meanings that I could barely begin to decipher. It was clear enough that she'd already assessed Roger's suitability to be in the house, let alone hand in hand with me, and found him wanting.

Anger helped me to find my voice, my words equally as challenging as hers. 'A nice one?'

Neither of them answered my question. Instead, my father moved towards us, his hand outstretched.

'David Carter,' he informed Roger. 'I'm Catherine's father. This is my wife, Annabel Carter.'

'Roger Davis.' Roger shook his hand. 'Mrs Carter,' he turned to my mother. 'I've heard a lot about you.'

Social niceties came naturally to her. 'All good I hope?' As the question went unanswered, I had to stifle a smile at his almost-poetic move.

'So you're Catherine's…?' My father tailed off, hoping the word he didn't want to say would be supplied by somebody else.

'Yes.' Roger nodded, once again wrong-footing my parents.

'We weren't expecting you home just yet,' my mother said in an attempt to cover up her discomfort. 'You should have called. We could have picked you up from the airport.' She gave Roger another sweeping glance, as if she were assessing him for germs before she said, 'Do have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?'

We both shook our heads. Sat side by side on my parents' sofa, I was reminded of how we'd spent so many hours slouched on the battered sofa in the loft. Right then, I knew where I'd rather be.

'So. Roger.' My father took his turn at instigating a conversation. 'You're from… New York?'

'Yeah. Upstate rather than the city. My parents own a small farm.' I wasn't sure if Roger was consciously putting on a special voice for my parents or not. It was endearing that he wanted to make a good impression on them, even if it wasn't exactly working.

'And what do you do?' It was a question that my father would ask; he was only really happy when he was dealing with jobs and careers. Yet despite myself, I was curious to know how Roger would sell his particular brand of unemployment. Telling the literal truth was, understandably, completely out of the question.

It took him a couple of coughs to clear his throat before he spoke. 'Well, I, um…' His manners temporarily escaped him as he fell back on the age-old shrug of the shoulders. Then he swallowed hard. 'I'm a musician.'

'Oh?' A moment of vague interest from my mother. 'What do you play?'

'Guitar. And I sing, a bit.' He nodded, and I realised with a sinking heart that he somehow thought that this was endearing him to my family. To my mother, being a musician involved bow ties and symphony orchestras, not the ripped jeans and guitar riffs that formed such a huge part of Roger's world. 'I was in a band for a bit but it didn't quite work out.'

My mother didn't even try to hide her disdain. 'Oh. I see.'

An interminable silence descended upon us. I glanced from parent to parent to brother and back again, wondering if there was any way I could change fate and have this meeting go differently.

With one short sentence, my mother proved that I couldn't.

'Have you at least let Sam know you're back in the country?'

The spectre I'd tried hard to put out of my mind since those snowy days in Red Hook loomed up larger than ever now. 'Not yet,' I replied vaguely and grudgingly, knowing that I'd behaved appallingly by any standards. The realisation didn't make it any easier to admit. 'I will,' I added as she gave me a firm look.

'I really think you should. He's called a few times asking after you.'

'I'll… do it.' Suddenly I had to get out of there and be anywhere but in the company of my family. Standing up, I said, 'I might go and freshen up, actually. It's… been a long trip.' I surprised myself with the epic truth behind that statement. 'We'll go and put our cases upstairs and… dress for dinner.' I saw Roger's eyebrows rise in surprise; of late, it had been all we could do to get properly dressed in the first place, let alone for dinner. 'Roger…?' Gesturing out the door, I gave my parents one last sickly sweet smile. 'We'll see you later.'

Later, it only got worse. Dinner was a stilted affair, punctuated with pointed remarks about events I'd missed over Christmas and the occasional barbed question about Roger's life before now. He answered as honestly as he could without completely terrifying my parents, but the half-answers he provided almost gave a worse impression of him thnt the truth would have done: unemployed for almost a lifetime, renting an apartment with an equally as shady-sounding man. As the evening progressed, I found myself focussing more and more upon the plate in front of me. My cheeks burned with the shame of the situation, a situation I'd engineered. Nobody was enjoying this, and there was only myself to blame.

By the time we escaped early to bed, my eyes were already pricking with tears. I had foreseen all of this, had always known it wouldn't be easy, and yet nothing had prepared me for how badly it had gone. The memory of my mother's look of disgust as Roger had talked about the way he'd spent the last ten years wouldn't leave me alone and I barely heard Roger's overly-chipper comments as we got ready for bed. It was unlike him to be so communicative, and yet it was only when the stream of words dried up and he placed his hand in the small of my back that I realised I wasn't alone in this feeling.

'Cat? You okay?' Before I could reply, he added, 'And before you say you are, I know you're not.'

I turned guilty eyes towards him, forcing a smile. 'Is it that obvious?'

'To me.' He nodded, his eyes never leaving my face.

Sighing, I leaned into his welcome embrace, my head resting on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry.'

'What for?'

'For them. For this whole thing. I'm sorry.'

'You don't have to be. Come on. We always knew I'd be a disappointment to them. I think it's gone pretty well, considering.'

I lifted my head. 'Stop it.'

'Stop what?'

'Trying to make me feel better.' Pouting a little, my mood brightening despite myself, I gave him an admonishing look. 'The whole thing has been awful. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to get straight back onto a plane and go home.'

'That,' Roger tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear, 'is not going to happen. So don't be stupid.'

A smile tugged at my mouth underneath his caress and I had to fight the instinct to let it take over. The evening had been too hideous to simply shrug it away with a laugh. 'Well we can't stay here.' After less than twelve hours, I was already finding it more difficult to breathe than I had in America. I dreaded to think what another twenty-four hours underneath this roof would do to me.

'No.' Roger rubbed my shoulder again thoughtfully. 'You're probably right. But do you have any idea where we can go? Cause I'm out of ideas.'

This time I couldn't keep the smile off of my face. 'So you're putting your life in my hands?'

'Basically.'

'No pressure then.' I giggled.

Even as a smile crossed his face, I saw the serious look in his eyes; he agreed we couldn't stay here. I took a deep breath.

'There is somewhere we could go…'

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><p>What followed were the most blissful six weeks of our life together. A small cottage overlooking the North Sea in mid-January would never have been my destination of choice, but there were few other options than the cottage my grandparents had lived in until my granddad's death seven years ago. Gran had moved to spend the rest of her days by a very different sea in the south of Spain with my mother's brother and wife. The Norfolk winters had become just too much for her.<p>

For the first few days, I thought they might be too much for us as well. We arrived as the light was fading from the sky on an unassuming Thursday evening, my fingers almost frozen into a grip around the steering wheel. As we unloaded our few possessions and let ourselves into the kitchen, I couldn't help thinking that it had never been like this when my grandparents had lived here. I was frankly embarrassed by the state my mother had allowed the place to get into, and I sent a silent apology to my granddad who had spent his retirement fixing the place up until it was almost the house of his dreams. This was more of a nightmare, I thought, as I noted the cracked linoleum and layers of dust on the worktop. It was only when Roger tried, unsuccessfully, to turn the lights on that I reluctantly met his eye.

'I…' I began, on the verge of spilling out a thousand apologies.

'We'll light candles.' He spoke firmly and held his hand out to me. 'There's a shop down the street. Come on.'

We found the electrics the next day and replaced the simple fuse which had gone, but somehow we never quite got around to putting the lights on in an evening, instead preferring the inconstant flickering light which a dozen candles provided. Years later I'd blame the creases at the corners of my eyes and my increasingly long-sight to the evenings we spent squinting in the gloom. They were evenings I wouldn't have traded for the world.

The small village perched on a clifftop had always been a quiet refuge even in the height of summer. There were better beaches and bigger resorts further down the coast, and this area tended to be most popular with walkers rather than large families. A simple café faced the sometimes howling winds of the North Sea, alongside the shop which had been our salvation that first night. A scattering of houses were homes to a few fishermen, or retired couples like my grandparents, whilst a few were rented out to the very hardiest of tourists. In midwinter, the place was a ghost town, and Roger and I could go for days without seeing anybody other than the girl who worked in the shop who barely broke off from chewing her gum in order to speak. With anybody else it would have seemed bleak and unappealing. With Roger, it was more than enough.

'This place must be beautiful in the summer,' he remarked one day as we strolled along the deserted beach. It had become a routine, as much a part of our day as Roger bringing me a cup of tea in bed and the two of us lounging across the sofa and each other in the evening. 'I can see why you came here every summer. I _can't_ see why your parents went to the south of France.'

'You haven't seen their chateau,' I reminded him, smiling.

'Oh a treat to come?'

I shrugged and we walked on. Those weeks found us mainly avoiding the topic of my parents – or indeed his parents – and instead having the kinds of conversations we'd indulged in during that baking summer in Central Park. In some ways it was as though nothing had changed between then and now, and yet at the same time the difference between the people we'd been then and the people we were now was vast. Sometimes I found myself simply gazing at Roger, trying to reconcile my memory of that first time we'd laid eyes on each other, the way he'd turned away from me without a word, with this man who shared my every waking and sleeping moment now. If he noticed my scrutiny of his face he never mentioned it.

The weeks rolled on almost unnoticed by us. We each knew this wasn't a permanent solution, that sooner or later we'd have to grow up and do all the things which neither of us had ever attempted seriously: find jobs, somewhere to live, a life which didn't involve following our own whims and fancies. Knowing this didn't stop us from pretending we didn't, though. There would be time enough for all of that in the future.

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><p>'Cat?'<p>

I opened my eyes to find Roger crouched down by the side of the bed. The first thing I noticed was the fact that it was still semi-dark in the room and I opened my mouth to demand a reason for his having woken me so early. Luckily for him, the second thing I noticed was the steaming mug of tea in his hand.

'That better be for me,' I mumbled.

He smiled. 'Of course.' He stroked a stray strand of hair back off of my face. 'Sorry to wake you up. I just thought you'd want to know.'

'Know what?' I frowned, a sudden feeling of foreboding spreading through my body. I glanced at the bedside table where Roger always left his watch at the end of the day. It had only just gone seven o'clock, far earlier than I'd woken up since arriving back in England, although it wasn't unusual for Roger to be up by now. In the last few weeks he had taken to going for early morning walks. When I'd teasingly accused him of becoming a health junkie, rather than defending himself, he'd simply shrugged and remarked that it was about time he started taking care of himself. I'd left it at that. And yet in all those weeks, he'd never once tried to encourage me to join him. If he was waking me up this early, there was something wrong.

Before he could explain, words flew out of my mouth. 'What's happened? Are you okay? Is Mark…?' There were too many possibilities for me to get my head around as I scrambled upright in bed.

Roger moved to sit on the bed and caught my hands in his. 'Calm down. Everybody's fine, it's alright.' Before I could interrupt again, he continued, 'It's just, I was listening to the radio. Your dad works for Barings Bank, doesn't he?'

Frowning, I nodded. 'But I don't…'

He cut me off. 'They're in some trouble.' Biting his lip, he added, 'Maybe you better call your parents.'

It was that more than anything else that day which convinced me that this was serious: that Roger would suggest contacting the people who had made him feel so unwelcome only weeks earlier made my stomach dip lower than I could remember in a long time. That he didn't even hesitate before joining me when I told him I was going straight home that morning only made the feeling worse. Real life seemed to have caught up with us in a major way.


	42. Chapter 42

Barings Bank had been trading in London since 1762, making it the oldest merchant bank in the city. It had ridden the highs and lows of the next two centuries, weathering out both World Wars and even avoiding a late nineteenth-century collapse. It was, my father had always claimed, safe as houses. He was the bank's strongest advocate, the ideal employee.

Sadly, he hadn't reckoned on Nick Leeson and his aggressive and foolhardy trades in the Far East. In roughly a year, he had lost the bank £827 million, killing off a two-hundred-year-old institution and bringing me back to the house I had left in such a huff only weeks earlier.

My father wasn't at home when I got there, of course; his place was at the office today, along with my brother. Amelia, though, was present and fluttering around in a state of almost satisfied panic, such crises never having touched her life before. Watching her that day, I was struck by how different our lives had become. Despite the marriage and the apparent maturity that came with it, my sister was ill-equipped to deal with anything that couldn't be fixed with a cup of tea and the writing of a reasonably sized cheque. It was for that reason that I was glad I'd come today, because it was clear my mother wasn't coping either.

Oh, on the surface she was making all the right noises. She was answering the calls from her friends with breezy assurances that it would all sort itself out, nothing but a minor storm in her otherwise sunny life. I knew why she was doing it; nobody in her social circle would ever admit defeat and allow anybody the opportunity to pick over the bones of somebody else's misfortune. It was the same reason that I knew my return home would have barely been mentioned in the last month. There were too many explanations involved, over where I was living and who with. Easier to gloss over the whole thing.

My mother's façade was crumbling though. The phone was placed down that little more firmly every time, the smiles and laughs came a little more slowly, and even her skill in undermining Roger was falling apart. Whilst she'd hardly welcomed him with open arms, the most she'd managed all day was to ignore his presence, and by evening, he'd been accidentally included in the endless cups of tea she'd been serving. This wasn't the woman I'd grown used to over the last twenty-five years and I was worried. Lying on my old bed that night, still fully dressed, I stared at the ceiling and wondered how everything could have changed so much in only a year. For a brief moment, I wondered if today was punishment for my behaviour. It was clear from what I'd heard on the television and radio that everything wasn't well. In truth, I doubted whether even those pessimistic reports scratched the surface of the matter. James had called once to tell us that they were staying at his apartment in the city tonight so they could get an early start tomorrow. Maybe if I'd never gone to New York this wouldn't have happened.

That thought was instantly banished as superstitious nonsense when Roger spoke from where he was sitting on the end of the bed. 'Cat. Talk to me.'

I didn't take my eyes off of the ceiling. 'About what?' It came out as a weary sigh, a reflection of just how much the day had taken out of me. My heart only sank further as I thought about what the next day might bring.

'Anything. Just don't do that silence thing.'

'You're usually a fan of the silence thing.'

'Not in you. So come on.' He turned and lay down next to me, his head propped up on one elbow and the other resting across my stomach. 'Say something.'

It crossed my mind to say something flippant as I was in that sort of mood. If I was channelling Roger's usual method of dealing with things (Keep It Shut And Hope It Goes Away) then it would be the next logical move. But when he was so close to me, his eyes fixed on my face with such concern… I just didn't have it in me.

I sighed. 'I just… I want to make it better.' It was the plaintive whine of somebody far younger than I was and I pulled a face. 'I know I sound pathetic.'

'No.' Roger stroked my hair back off my face. 'You sound like you care. Do you think it's as bad as they're making out?'

I shrugged. 'I don't know. I don't really understand banking.'

'But?'

I finally met his eyes. 'But I've never seen my mother like this before.'

'What, almost hospitable?' Roger quipped. 'Sorry. I didn't mean…'

'Yes you did,' I replied, wrapping my arms around his neck and giving into the smile that was teasing the corners of my mouth. I pressed myself up against him, grateful for the sheer presence of him here, right where I needed him. That Roger Davis had suddenly become the reliable fixed point in my world was ironic to say the least, but I was pleased about it and let him know with a long lingering kiss. 'Thank you. I know you didn't want to come back here.'

'It's not too bad. Besides, I got to meet your sister. She's… something else.'

I smiled again as I thought of how Amelia had tried to subtly give Roger the once, twice and thrice over, and completely failed at being discreet. 'Yes, she is,' I agreed, remembering that her husband had stayed away today. That only made Roger's loyalty that bit more special. 'Like I said, thank you.'

'No problem.' He placed a kiss on my forehead before sitting up again. 'Now, do those dogs need walking?'

They probably did; both of them had been rather neglected that day and had only had the most cursory of trots around the garden. I knew though that Roger's offer was only partially from the goodness of his heart. This was all far more domestic than he'd been used to for years, possibly ever, and our weeks alone on the edge of a Norfolk cliff hadn't really been adequate preparation for what was potentially looking like a lengthy stay with my family. He needed to get out and clear his head.

Roger left in a muddle of leads and lashing tails, and as the door closed behind him, I realised that I had my own duties to perform. Amelia had disappeared for a bath hours ago and was no doubt painstakingly combing her hair five hundred times or whatever was recommended in Cosmopolitan that month. Which left my mother and me. For the first time, I wondered if I could be of any use to her; if anybody had learnt a thing or two about dealing with a crisis in the last year, it was me. Perhaps this was the thing which would bring us together in a Hollywood mother-daughter bonding thing. Even as I knocked gingerly on the living room door, I was forcing that thought away. I was trying to be positive; I didn't need to be delusional.

The television was on, which was unusual in itself. My mother wasn't usually a great fan of soaps or documentaries, and certainly not of the sit-com which was on at the moment. It was just another uncomfortable change from the life I'd always experienced within these four walls.

It took a while for her to even acknowledge me, let alone respond to my tentative offer of a cup of tea. She shook her head and turned back to the screen, seemingly ending the conversation before it had even begun. I lingered in the doorway, wishing I'd gone with Roger and braved the icy conditions outside, rather than the icy conditions inside. At least he'd appreciate my company. Just as I was about to turn around and head back upstairs to brood by myself, my mother spoke.

'Did I hear the front door go?'

'It was Roger.' Relieved beyond my expectations to hear her speak, I added, 'He's just taken the dogs out for a walk.'

There was a pause. Then, 'Oh. He should probably come in the back door. They make a real mess of the hall.'

Incredulity choked me momentarily. I wondered if I'd heard correctly, if she'd just expressed more concern over the state of her flooring than she had about the fact her husband and son's jobs might be about to end. Even after all these years, all the times we'd clashed over the colour of my shoes and the way I held a wine glass, I was still shocked by her priorities. It was with a strange sense of hope that I wondered if she was having a breakdown and the events of the day had completely passed her by. At least that would explain her comment.

Her next words proved she was suffering from nothing of the sort. Keeping her eyes fixed on the screen, she said in a voice almost devoid of emotion, 'Your father re-mortgaged the house last year. He put all the money into the bank.'

It took several seconds for the significance of what she was saying to hit home. 'You mean…?'

'If the bank goes under, we'll have to sell up.' Then, entirely abruptly, she stood up. 'I might have a bath. Good night, darling.'

If I'd expected an outpouring of emotion, complete with hugs and exclamations of delight that I'd returned home in the middle of a family crisis, I'd have been disappointed. But twenty-five years had taught me never to expect that from my mother, and so I was instead left with the sense that life for the Carters was about to change, perhaps irretrievably. It was with relief, and more than a few kisses, that I greeted Roger on his return, although too late to stop the dogs making an unholy mess of the hallway.

When I'd given him time to breathe and digest what I had to say, Roger's initial reaction cut me to the bone. 'Wow. Poor little rich guys.'

'Roger!'

'What? It's not like your parents can't afford to lose a house, or even two. You've said as much yourself.' Warming to his theme, he proceeded to itemise the Carter property portfolio. 'What was it you said? A chateau in France, a villa in Spain, a chalet in the Alps, a cottage in Cornwall wherever that is, this place, your apartment, no doubt some place for your delightful sister-'

I felt certain he'd have continued if I hadn't interrupted him. In some ways it was impressive that he remembered the list from that talk we'd had on the rooftop in New York half a year ago. It didn't change the fact that every word had brought the tears ever nearer the surface.

'Alright!' I snapped, causing both Chas and Dave to lift their heads off of their paws and regard me with as much concern as a Labrador could muster. 'So it's not like they'll be on the streets. That's not the point.'

'Isn't it?'

'No!'

'What is then?'

'It's… it's their way of life, Roger, it's everything they understand, it's…'

'Like I said. Not exactly a tragedy, is it?' His flippant tone lasted precisely three more seconds before he registered the hurt written across my face. 'Oh, Cat, I'm sorry.'

'You could at least try and be sympathetic,' I replied, not yet willing to give in to his sweet-talking. 'You know I'm worried.'

'Yeah, I do. I just don't know why.'

I gave him a disbelieving look. 'They're my _family_. This is their house, their life.'

'And they've hardly been sympathetic to your life recently, have they? After everything, Cat, I'm just surprised it bothers you so much. Would losing one house really matter so much? Losing two, even?'

I knew he was right, and what's more I wanted this conversation to be over. I wanted to go back to lying comfortably on the bed together, secure that however bad things were outside my room, everything I had inside was just fine. I wished we hadn't moved from there, and in a sudden change of mood, I crossed the room and curled up quite deliberately in Roger's lap.

Even so, I wasn't quite ready to concede the defeat. It was about so much more than a couple of houses and he knew it. It was about everything my father had worked for over the years going up without a trace. If Roger was having trouble with the financial aspect of things, he could at least identify with a man losing all his dreams overnight. That he could relate to.

'I just want to help,' I concluded, the evening taking a cyclical turn as I repeated my previous plea. 'Is that so wrong?'

Roger silently rubbed my back for a few moments as I buried my head further into his shoulder. Finally he spoke. 'No. There's nothing wrong with that at all.' With a light kiss on my head, he scooped me up and carried me to bed.

What he did after I'd fallen asleep was beyond my wildest imagination.


	43. Chapter 43

**A bit of a short one but I'm trying to get myself kick started on this again. I don't seem to get much free time for it!**

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><p>Despite my expectations, I'd all but passed out after Roger had taken me to bed, and slept deeply all night. It was only when the bedsprings sank dramatically beside me that I even opened an eyelid the next day. February sunlight was streaming in through the gaps in the curtains, telling me that I'd slept in; even then it felt far too soon to be coming up from the deep.<p>

Roger looked like I felt. I never knew if it was a result of his illness or a case of his past catching up with him whenever he was tired, but exhaustion had a way of working itself into every contour of his face. This morning, he looked as though he hadn't slept in days. Now I glanced at the other side of the bed and realised that there wasn't even a dent in the duvet. Roger had never come to bed last night.

He must have seen the instant concern shoot across my face. 'It's alright. I'm fine.'

'How did you know I was going to say that?' I demanded a little churlishly. Was I really so predictable?

'Just a hunch.' He smiled and some of the panic in my stomach went away. 'I've made you a cup of tea.'

I levered myself upright and took the offered mug. I took the first longed for sip of the day, and then said, 'You didn't come to bed.'

'I know.' When nothing else seemed forthcoming, I raised my eyebrows. For once, Roger took the hint. Partially. 'I had to do something.'

'In the middle of the night?'

'It's not the middle of the night everywhere.'

Such a cryptic answer only made my brow furrow further as I imagined all manner of things he could have been doing. With Roger, almost anything was possible and so my mind went into overdrive.

Once again, he pre-empted my question. 'It's nothing bad.'

'No?'

'No. Seriously, Cat, no!' he added, when I still gave him a doubtful look. His assurances weren't doing much to make me feel any better. With a semi-defeated sigh, he said, 'Okay. Look. Just… don't get mad.'

'Don't give me anything to get mad about and I won't.' One guilty look from his eyes suggested he wasn't blameless. 'Roger?'

There was a long pause.

'I sold the royalties to my song.'

An equally as long pause followed.

'What?' I didn't give him a chance to respond before I hurried on. 'But Roger, that's… that's your living, that's… everything. Why would you do that?' It was so out of the blue and irrational. To be fair, irrationality was practically Roger's default setting, but he'd been getting so much better of late that I'd hoped we'd avoid events like this in the future.

All he gave me was a shrug.

'That's it?' I mimicked him. 'That's your reason? You throw away the only income you have – the only income _we_ have – and _that's_ your reason?' My voice rose in pitch, fuelled by my tiredness and the stress of the last twenty-four hours. 'Why now, Roger? Why do it now? As if we need this, as if I need this! There has to be a better reason than-'

He interrupted. 'It should be enough to stop the bank repossessing the house.' His words took me so by surprise that my mouth simply hung open, no words quite right for the occasion. He lifted his eyes to meet mine. 'A good enough reason?' When I still didn't reply, he shrugged again and made to stand up. 'Anyway, it's done now. So whatever.'

'No, not _whatever.'_ I caught his arm and pulled him back down onto the bed. 'I… when did you decide to do this?'

'I've been thinking about it for a while.' In response to a withering look from me, he admitted, 'About midnight.'

'Just like that?'

'Pretty much. What? Why do you keep looking at me like that?'

'Roger… you don't even _like_ my parents, why would you…?'

'I love you. You love them.' The words came easily and unashamedly, the simple truth behind his actions. It was news to me that I could make anybody behave so recklessly; I wasn't sure if it was necessarily a good thing.

'Even so…' I shook my head. 'Roger, that's your _song_. It's… it's special-'

But even then he interrupted. 'No. It was never my song.' He shrugged again. 'I don't know. Maybe I should have done it a long time ago.' Reaching for my hand and squeezing it, he added, 'Really, Cat. It's fine.'

'Fine? Roger, it's not _fine_, it's…' Words failed me. 'God, it's so much more than that.'

An awkward grin crossed his face. 'Careful, you might make me big-headed,' he said, rolling his eyes. 'Don't go too overboard.'

I slapped him playfully on the back. 'Hush, you.' The slap became an arm snaking around his neck as I pressed myself against him, resting my cheek against his shoulder. 'You're… wonderful, you know?' He gave a low snort in response. 'Why can't you ever take a compliment?'

'I don't often do anything to compliment.' It was a reasonably true statement; there wasn't a whole lot for Roger to feel proud about from the last few years.

Today was different though. 'Well, I think you're wonderful.'

He gave me an embarrassed smile before standing up with an exaggerated stretch and yawn. 'I'm gonna take a shower. Okay?'

'Okay.' I nodded. He walked out, closing the door behind him. And I stretched out in the bed again, Lyn Davis's words coming back to me: _It's going to be alright. It's going to be fine._


	44. Chapter 44

**I know I'm taking ages over this. I'm writing as and when I can, but I'm finding it hard to be in the zone at the moment. This will get finished.**

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><p>'Fine' was probably a strange way to describe the next few weeks. Regardless of the situation with my parents, the end of our cosy intimate existence for two had to come; Roger's having donated all his savings and possible future earnings to the Carter Towers Fund simply hastened the need for us to re-join the real world. It wasn't something either of us turned out to be much good at initially.<p>

Living with my parents was problematic enough in the short-term, and Roger's generosity only seemed to make it harder. My father had never been much good at being beholden to anybody and the strained politeness whenever the two men were in a room together quickly changed from amusing to painful. It was clear that if anybody was to start feeling comfortable again then Roger and I would have to find somewhere else to live.

Our Norfolk hideaway was a non-starter. Jobs were few and far between on the coast in the off-season, especially for two such amateurs at employment as we were. Our very specific skills set (adequate waitress, would-be bartender) made returning to my grandparents' cottage all but impossible, and with no money behind us, there was only one place left we could escape to.

'This is… homey.'

I looked around my apartment for the first time in six months, and Roger's sarcasm was clear. I'd never liked the minimalist furniture much either, but in comparison to the shabby lived in atmosphere of Mark and Roger's loft, my apartment only seemed more soulless than ever. Roger's negativity wasn't helping though, especially not today.

'It's better than nothing.' Checking my watch, I crossed to the windows and opened them, hoping to let out the scent of a flat which had had inhabitants other than me in it for the past six months. There was something strange about knowing that all of my things had been used by somebody else and it only made this homecoming more unsettling than it would be already. The tension between us today was just the cherry on a particularly unsavoury cake.

Roger lounged on the sofa with his guitar, seemingly at ease, and yet I could feel his eyes on me constantly as I moved restlessly around the lounge, fiddling with my hair and dropping things into my handbag. I knew him by now; he was anything but at ease.

His next words only proved my suspicions. 'So what time are you meeting him?'

'Twelve.' I aimed for breezy carelessness. 'You already knew that.' He gave a brief nod and yet it was as inflammatory as if he'd thrown the damned guitar at me. 'Don't do this, Roger.'

'Do what?'

'You know what.' I flashed him a warning glare as I put a pair of earrings in. Changing the subject, I picked up the local newspaper. 'See if there are any jobs in there for us.'

The newspaper landed next to him on the sofa. Roger gave it a cursory glance, not even turning a page, before he focused his attention back upon the guitar. I was partially pleased he was showing an interest in it finally, having prioritised it over several more vital items of luggage throughout all of our recent moves. Now we were settled somewhere for what I hoped would be the foreseeable future, he was supposed to be arranging for his remaining possessions to be shipped over. Quite where we'd find the money for such a process I had no idea; hopefully the answer to that would be within the pages of the newspaper by his side. If he ever looked at it.

I finished getting ready to the sound of him picking out disjointed chords. It was only when I'd slipped my feet into the shoes I'd specially selected for this meeting and reached for my handbag that he finally spoke.

'What time will you be home?'

'I don't know.'

'Will you want dinner?'

'I don't know.' I shrugged.

'Oh.'

I bit my lip, trying desperately not to let my own nerves about today spill over into an attack upon him. 'Roger, you know today doesn't mean anything. You said it was alright.' God knows we'd talked about it endlessly, in a way which was most un-Davis-like. I should probably have seen this U-turn coming about fifty miles off. 'It's just lunch.'

'So is that what you wear to "just lunch"?'

I glanced down at the dress I was wearing. It would be a lie to claim I'd just thrown it on, and Roger would know that; it was so out of place with what I'd been wearing for weeks that it could only have been the result of a rummage through the clothes I'd just taken out of storage. As it happened, it was the sort of thing I'd always worn to lunch, at least in the days before Roger and New York. There was nothing especially risqué or even, I thought, provocative about it. But compared to the jeans or leggings I'd been favouring almost ever since I'd known him, it must have looked suspicious.

'Yes, it is.' Time was ticking on and I should have been halfway to the tube station by now. 'At least, it was.'

'When you were with him?'

I sighed exasperatedly. 'Roger, you know this is nothing! It's just something I have to do.'

'Have to or want to?'

'I'm not going to answer that.' I'd missed my tube; I was going to be late. 'Look… I've got to go. We'll… we'll talk later?' That uplift in my voice betrayed my own anxiety about this whole day. Having Roger mad at me wouldn't make it any easier. I picked my keys up. 'I'll see you this evening. I love you.'

The silence after my words caused me to slam the door a little too loudly behind me. I covered the distance to the tube station in record time, even in the ridiculous shoes I'd jammed my feet into and already regretted. At this rate, the first time I'd see my ex-fiancee since I'd broken up with him by telephone I'd be sweaty, harassed and limping.

I'd called Sam as soon as I'd arrived back in England, explaining the situation as calmly and coolly as I could. It was a story which would have made me sound very brave and mature until I added that the message had been delivered to his answer machine and that I'd heard nothing from him until the call two days ago at my parents' house. Given the situation, his request that we meet for lunch when I was back in London wasn't unreasonable.

The tube train eased its way under the city and I struggled out of the coat I'd thrown on; it was always too hot down here. My temper didn't help much and I tried to take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I wondered if the irony of this whole situation had hit Roger yet; if he was trying to convince me that I had a much better deal with him than Sam, he was going completely the wrong way about it.

I hated myself for that thought almost instantly. No convincing was needed: I knew I had a better deal now. For a moment, I almost got off of the train a stop early and headed back towards the apartment. God only knew that was where I'd rather be. But I had to do this. For once, Roger would have to come second.

There were so many ways this could all be interpreted, I mused, as I left Sloane Square station. I fit in so well in this area, I even caught another woman wearing the same dress as I was, but that wasn't why I'd worn it. This wasn't to seduce Sam; it was to show him that life without him was better. Perhaps if Roger was able to actually start believing me when I meant that, then this would be a much easier trip.

And just when my irritation with Roger was at its highest, Sam stood up from the table he'd reserved in the restaurant and unleashed one of his trademark smiles.

'You look really well.' Sam's opening line was delivered with his usual panache. It wasn't hard to see why his career was doing so well at the moment.

'So do you.' He did. He looked… well, it would be churlish to say he looked anything other than amazing. It was clear that as well as filming in France, he'd found the time to catch some winter sun, and it made his blue eyes shine. In comparison, I was sure I looked too thin and tired. Still, it was nice to be complimented.

Lunch passed well. The food was good and the service excellent – the waiter would definitely be receiving a tip at the end of the meal – yet I couldn't quite settle to hearing about Sam's newest casting or the latest gossip from our social circle. Despite the way I'd run away from all of that last summer, I'd expected that simple idle curiosity might have made me more inclined to listen to all he had to say. Instead, my mind wandered to my neglected flat and wondered how Roger was spending the afternoon.

It was only when Sam broke off from the litany of wonderful things that had been happening to him over the last few months that I really noticed how little I'd been listening. When he turned those blue eyes on me with the tried and tested Mr Sympathetic face, I was reminded exactly why I'd spent so long entranced by this man.

'But enough about me. How are you?' In an entirely natural gesture, he patted my hand where it lay on the table beside my wine glass. 'I heard about your father. How is he? How are your family?'

I reached for my wine and took a sip, partially to buy myself more time and partially to remove my hand from underneath his. 'He's fine. Everybody's well,' I said after a pause. A strange sense of loyalty to my father prevented me from expanding any further upon that; he'd hate me to discuss our private matters with anybody, even somebody who had become so much a part of them in recent years. 'How are your family?'

Sam nodded my question away, ignoring my obvious desire to move away from the subject. 'Listen, if there's anything I can do to help… if your family need anything… financially or…'

'It's fine.' I shook my head.

'I mean it. I don't mind. I've always been very fond of your parents.'

'Honestly, Sam, they're perfectly alright.' Suddenly my loyalty to my father ran out, and a newer attachment re-asserted itself. 'Roger has helped.'

Sam gave a small not wholly pleasant smile. 'Oh. Right.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Nothing.' He picked up his wine glass and swirled it in that way I'd always found irritating, as though he was some kind of grape connoisseur. 'It's just… well, I thought he was _unemployed_.'

That particular piece of information had surely come from my mother; her sense of discretion would never have gone so far as to exclude Sam. No doubt she would consider it her motherly duty, convincing my sometime-fiancee that I was merely having a moment and that a relationship with an _unemployed musician_ would never last in the long term. All Sam had to do was wait.

And I could see that confidence in him now in the twisted amused smile he was trying and failing to hide. Some actor. It was written all over his face that he thought my new relationship was a joke, that I'd agreed to meet him today purely to beg forgiveness. Anger shot through me, stronger than any loyalty I had for either my father or Roger. How dare Sam treat me like this?

Now I tried to avoid losing my temper. 'He is.'

'And yet he's bailing your parents out?' Raising a sceptical eyebrow, Sam took another sip of his wine.

'He's got savings.' I knew how pathetic that sounded and added, 'He's had some success in music actually. He's sold the royalties to a song of his.' I decided not to add that it was the only song he had. I was still barely over my own concern about that particular aspect of our lives.

'Oh. Anything I'd have heard of?'

'Probably not.' I faked nonchalance and took another sip of wine. 'What?' I demanded as Sam shook his head, that infuriating smile still on his face.

'This is crazy.'

'What is?'

'You and… him.' He leaned across the table and reached for my hand again. 'This… _relationship_… where exactly is it going?'

I wriggled out of his grasp again. 'I'm not sure that's any of your business.'

'Oh Catherine.' Sam shook his head again, his tone patronising. 'This isn't you, you know. Not really.'

'How would you know?'

'Because I know you. I mean, what do you even see in someone like him? What is he, an unemployed musician from New York? From what your mother said, he's got nothing going for him. So why?'

For someone like Sam, I knew my choice would never make any sense. Why would I pass over the chance to attend fancy parties, making my way up the social ladder on the arm of one of the most eligible men Britain had to offer, in favour of living in relative poverty with an unemployed nobody? Even without knowledge of Roger's past issues and health, the choice should have been obvious. Weighing it up now, I had no idea how I could really answer that. Words like 'love' and 'soul mate' just didn't register on Sam's consciousness, and given Roger's performance this morning, to say I was attracted to his charming personality would be a downright lie.

But my silence on the matter wasn't really helping my case. So I scrabbled for the first words I could find and found them to be the most truthful ones I could have chosen.

'He tries to be honest with me.' When I could see that my words had scored a very palpable hit, I reached for my handbag. 'It's been lovely seeing you, Sam, but I really must be going. I think fifty pounds should cover my share of the bill.' I placed the money on the table.

'Catherine…' Sam began to get to his feet as I did. He glanced around, and in that instant I was certain I was making the right decision. 'Don't make a scene.'

'I'm not making a scene,' I replied coolly. 'I'm just leaving. Goodbye Sam.'

As I turned to go, it was Sam who finally lost his cool. 'Well, I want the ring back!' he demanded. 'It was my family's, I have a right to it!'

That it should all come down to this, I mused as I reached into my handbag for the small box the ring had been languishing in since last June. All those years of commitment, at least on my side, all those many nights spent lying alongside each other, together in body if not in spirit, ending with a petty argument in a restaurant over a lump of stone and metal. The only sense of satisfaction came from the fact that it was Sam, not me, causing the scene.

'Here.' I handed it to him, an extra kick coming from Sam's expression as he realised I was already one step ahead of him. At the last minute, I added, 'It's a beautiful ring. I hope you find someone who deserves it.'

There was nothing Sam could really say back to that.

* * *

><p>Three things greeted me as I walked in the door of the apartment. One was the beautifully laid table in the living area, the table I couldn't remember ever eating an evening meal off of. I had no idea where Roger had found candles or holders from, but they were flickering merrily in the dying light of the February day. The second was the smell of what I was now able to easily identify as Roger's signature stir-fry, the meal he'd made all those months ago on the night everything had changed between us. The memory of that evening and how far we'd come since wrapped around me like a balm and despite my large lunch, my stomach rumbled in anticipation.<p>

And the third thing was a whirlwind that firmly wrapped its arms around me, pressing me against its cigarette-infused jumper as though I'd been gone for months rather than a couple of hours.

'I love you too,' Roger breathed into my ear, before placing several kisses over my forehead and cheeks. 'I… should have said that earlier, I'm sorry.'

The intensity of his greeting had taken me by surprise, and now I let out an involuntarily giggle. 'It's… alright.'

'No, it's not.' He stroked my face gently, brushing the stray wind-blown hairs back off of my face. 'It's never alright.'

'Dinner smells nice.'

'I know you said you might not want anything, but…'

'Really.' I linked my fingers through his and drew his hand away from my face. 'I'm starving.'

Relieved and reassured, he smiled, a real smile which brightened his eyes and made my stomach clench in a way I hadn't known was possible before meeting him. This was why, I thought as Roger fetched me a glass of wine and helped me off with my coat, this was the reason why I was here rather than with Sam. He didn't just try to be honest; he _tried_. And that meant the world.


	45. Chapter 45

**A double update as I've had a blitz of it this weekend and made some progress. I have to admit I'm being rather indulgent in this story now as I enjoy Roger and Cat so much, but I think there is still a story to be told here. A good 10 or more chapters to go in my opinion.**

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><p>Roger's tenacity was tried to the limit over the next few weeks. Watching him addressing the increasingly-pressing issue of employment was a revelation; I'd never believed him to be lazy as such, but his energy for this task was almost super-human. I'd known that finding a job would be a problem for both of us with our wobbly employment history. It seemed that I was still a little too naïve for this new independent life though, and when we reached the end of the third week without even having been granted an interview at any of the bars, pubs, restaurants and shops we'd applied for, panic began to tighten its fingers around me. I knew that we weren't exactly poor and we could muddle along for a little longer. If the worst came to the worst, I could probably borrow some money from my parents; my father and brother had found fresh work shortly after Barings Bank had gone under. The issue of the 'loan' Roger had given him had yet to be fully broached and I was sure if I was brave enough that we could live off of that for a while. Bravery had never exactly been my strong point though.<p>

And so panic and despair seemed the easier option, and seven hour days of trawling almost every inch of the capital for the smallest classified advert certainly nurtured those feelings. That was how I came to be lying on the sofa staring blindly at the television at seven-thirty one Friday night. No invitations from former friends in London arrived anymore. Sam's personal press secretaries had obviously done a good job of making sure that anybody making friendly advances towards Catherine Carter would be instantly frozen out of his social circle. I hadn't thought that would bother me as much as it did.

'What are you watching?' Roger joined me on the sofa. His hair was wet from the shower he'd just taken and he was wearing a pair of moth-eaten tracksuit bottoms and a baggy jumper. As yet I hadn't managed to even take my boots off since walking in the door an hour earlier. His fresh clean scent only made me feel lazier and grubbier than ever.

'Nothing much.' I raised my eyes briefly from the screen to see him opening up yet another newspaper. 'Oh Roger, you're not starting again, are you?' I didn't think I could look at another job advert today.

'Just looking.' He didn't glance up in my direction.

'Can't we take a night off?' When he didn't reply, I added in a horribly whiny tone of voice, 'Roger?'

In a flurry of paper, he stood up, dumping the newspaper on the floor. 'Sure. You hungry?' Before I could answer, he was already in the kitchen, pulling things out of cupboards.

'Not really.'

He poked his head back around the door. 'You've hardly eaten all day.'

'I'm not really hungry.'

'You've got to eat!' I was a little taken aback at how sharp his tone was. It seemed he was too, as I saw him close his eyes momentarily and take a deep breath. 'I'll make you a sandwich.'

Apathy led me to leave him to it. Cooking made Roger happy, and now I came to think about it, he hadn't looked happy for a few days now. The constant rejection must have been taking its toll on him as well. It was for that reason alone that I tried my best to eat the ham and cheese sandwich he produced several minutes later. Roger didn't remark when he ended up finishing it for me, in three swift bites.

'All that running must be building up your appetite,' I said, semi-teasingly as I watched him. His early starts had recommenced when we moved to London and I had to admit that it was making a difference. He'd never been fat, but the frequent exercise had melted what little padding there was off of him, leaving a much harder leaner body behind. I was surprised by how much I liked it.

'You could join me.'

I wrinkled my nose up. 'Exercise isn't really my thing.' Certainly not on top of traipsing around an increasingly hostile city looking for menial work. My feet were aching enough already.

'No,' Roger mused. 'Not even bending down to take your shoes off, apparently.' He raised an eyebrow as I looked away guiltily, before he slid the boots off of my feet. I curled my toes up instinctively as he did so, the pain somehow increasing now they were freed from their restraints. Whether it was a reaction to that or an unconscious action on his part, Roger ran his finger along the instep of my right foot, a movement which soon became the closest thing to a foot massage I'd ever experienced. I closed my eyes and felt some of the tension of the last few weeks drift away.

'I just want to make you proud.'

It was the voice of a lost boy and my eyes jerked open immediately, half-wondering if it could really have come from Roger. But of course it had. I shouldn't have been so shocked.

'Oh Roger!' I scrambled along the sofa and pressed myself close to him. 'You do… I am… I…'

'I don't want you thinking you've made a mistake.' He lifted his eyes to look at me, and the fear on his face was obvious. It made me wonder if he'd ever get over those insecurities of his and it was a disconcerting thought; I was running out of ways to convince him.

Now I tried to move even closer to him, reassuring him with my physical presence, as I straddled his lap and put my arms around his neck. 'Don't be so stupid. I'm here aren't I?'

'It's your apartment.'

'You know that's not what I mean!' I linked my fingers through his. 'God, Roger. You don't have to get a job to make me happy. I mean… it would help…' I was gratified to see a small smile cross his face. 'But it's not why I'm here.'

He slid his fingers out my grasp and around my waist. I fell to playing with his still damp hair, not for the first time feeling a stab of envy that he was able to be so cavalier in his hair care; mine was hanging limply down my back now, equally as fed up with the damp weather we'd been experiencing as I was.. It was March next week, but winter didn't seem like spring was going to arrive any time soon.

'I'm going to find a job,' he said after a pause, a determined glint in his eyes.

'I know you are.'

'I mean it. I'm gonna do it properly.'

'Alright!' I stroked his face gently, startled by the tension I could feel in his jaw. 'Roger, it's okay. It's not like I'm exactly bringing home the bacon, is it?'

'That's different.'

'How? Roger, it's 1995, unless you haven't noticed. There's this little thing called equal opportunities?'

But Roger wouldn't be joked out of his mindset. 'You've given up so much for me.'

'You've moved continents! Roger!' I resisted the urge to shake him. 'You've got to stop putting me on this pedestal. It's crazy.' It was also bringing back those familiar feelings of suffocation which the last few weeks had done wonders for. All my life I'd tried to live up to somebody else's expectations. One of the things I loved the most about Roger was how he'd always let me be myself, never expecting me to change in any way to fit in with him. His very presence in London now, miles away from everybody he knew, was testament to that. 'I'm not going to change my mind, you know. This is it as far as I'm concerned. Me and you.'

That interminable silence that was such a part of his character left me on tenterhooks. Despite myself, I allowed my hopes to rise, almost believing that this time he'd accept what I was telling him. The waiting gave me the opportunity to really look at him for the first time in weeks. He looked tired, yes, but no more so than anybody else who had been working as hard as he had recently. He'd be thirty-one in just over six weeks, and whilst I was probably biased, I would have said he could take five years off his age without many people batting an eyelid. He was intelligent and witty; he was capable of extraordinary kindness when he wanted to be. He had a circle of friends of which anybody would be jealous. He had the power to make my stomach swoop with one glance from those magical eyes. And I had every reason to believe that he was talented, although as yet all I'd heard were a few discordant riffs on his beloved guitar. All in all, he was a pretty amazing catch by anybody's standards, at least these days. That he just couldn't see it was beyond my reasoning.

All of this was on the tip of my tongue to say when I realised that whilst I'd been taking my time studying him, he'd had equally as much time to do the same to me. Suddenly aware of how close we were to each other, I felt the blood rush to my face and I buried my head in his shoulder, desperate to hide my face from view. Roger's only response was to tighten his hold on me.

It was only after a long pause when my eyelids were decidedly drooping that Roger spoke again. 'Do you want to keep watching this?'

I lifted my head and followed his gaze, giving a small smile at the increasingly complex soap episode which was on the television. 'Not especially.'

'I was starting to worry about your taste.'

'I've been worrying about that for a while.'

'Funny.' His mouth twisted into a vague smile.

'At least you're smiling again.' I kissed his cheek before snuggling close to him again. 'You haven't been doing that much lately, you know.'

Roger didn't confirm or deny if he'd known that, but his next words were exactly what I needed to hear. It was true that they wouldn't find either of us gainful employment, yet right at that moment I didn't really care about that. This was, after all, the reason why I was here on this drizzly February night. There had to be some perks to this new life I'd committed myself to.

'Shall we go to bed?'

* * *

><p>March, as the old adage said, came in like a lion that year, with a thunderstorm on the very first day. Roger had finally secured an interview for a bartending job in Soho and returned from it both disheartened and soaked to the skin. I fussed around him, insisting upon cooking him dinner to make up for his bad day even though we both knew that whatever I made would do little beyond put a wry smile upon his face. Roger, though, seemed almost not to notice the abysmal weather, so concerned was he with the events of the interview. He was never going to be the kind of person who opened up, even to me, but I noticed the steely set of his eyes and the tightening muscles in his jawline. It had definitely got to him.<p>

There was a change that month as interviews began pouring in for both of us, as though our persistence in traipsing the streets every day had gained us a reputation which entitled us to an interview at the very least. I found myself in offices of every kind, as well as being interviewed across bars and tables still sticky with the remnants of someone else's dinner. I could honestly say I wasn't crying into my pillow over being rejected from some of the establishments of the latter kind, although I did wonder how desperate one how to look to be 'right for the position'.

But Roger was taking it hard. It was clear from the way he ate his breakfast and watched television that he was brooding, his mind only ever slightly on the task immediately at hand. He mustered up smiles when they were required, but they never quite reached his eyes and there was an eternal cloud across his face which rivalled even the ones in the sky outside. As his depression grew, I forced myself to be ever more cheerful and optimistic, a demeanour which didn't exactly come easily or naturally to me. As the weeks passed, I could feel my spirits dampening along with the weather. Even the final confirmation from the doctor that last August's events had left me entirely unscathed, at least medically speaking, seemed an anti-climax. Any celebrations we might have had were put indefinitely on-hold as the bottom of both of our bank accounts began to come into sight. It sounded ungrateful in the light of that news that I was saying daily silent prayers that something good would happen to us soon.

And then I got a job.


	46. Chapter 46

'Rog?'

There was a barely audible groan in response to my tentative question. It seemed like we'd mainly communicated in words of one syllable for the last week or so as Roger's moods had turned ever blacker following my starting work. He'd never said anything openly nasty to me and the way he curled himself around me at night meant that any irritation I could have felt towards him rapidly melted into sympathy and worry. Even so, I missed the man I'd brought to London with me in January. I hoped today might be the day things changed.

Crouching down by the bed now, I ran a hand through his hair. 'I'm going to work. Okay?' I wasn't sure quite when I'd started speaking to him as though he were a sick child.

His eyes opened, albeit reluctantly. 'Yeah, course.'

'How many interviews have you got today?'

'Two.'

'Good luck.'

'Thanks.'

The conversation seemingly over, I stood up abruptly and tried not to show how much these interchanges upset me. When I thought back over how much time we'd always been able to spend talking about pointless nonsense, it felt like a different relationship all together. I'd never known that ordinary life could so tarnish things.

My tone when I spoke again was much more clipped, even as I tried reminding myself that Roger wasn't doing this deliberately. 'You won't forget about dinner will you?' When I got no response, I added, 'You know? Amelia's birthday dinner?'

'Yeah.'

I bit my lip, remembering how much I hated walking out in a bad mood with him. I was finding my new job in a restaurant trying enough without feeling guilty over how Roger and I parted in the morning. 'I'm going straight from work, remember.' It was a miracle I was going at all; I'd had to swap shifts and promise to work a double one the following day. I highly doubted my sister would quite appreciate my sacrifice. 'So I'll… see you there?' No response. 'Roger?'

'Yeah, sure.'

The rush of irritation which flooded through me screamed out for me to walk away with only a slamming door as a goodbye. It was worrying how much I had to fight against it in order to kiss him goodbye and good luck, before heading into the city for another day of what was rapidly seeming like the hardest job in the world.

Faim was a new restaurant in Belgravia, exactly the kind of place I would once upon a time have been eating in rather than serving in. I could only assume that this was one of the reasons why I'd been hired in the first place; the_ maître d'_s comment that 'at least she looks the part' was certainly fairly strong evidence for this. It was true that I knew what sort of service my former social circle would expect, but in truth, I knew nothing about how to deliver it. My summer of working in Tony's café had in no way prepared me for the work I was undertaking now.

The other waiters and waitresses seemed to have more of a clue over the practicalities of the job and so far I'd muddled through without too many mishaps. I knew I had to tidy my act up though; already I'd heard hissed comments pass between some of the more ambitious staff members who were clearly becoming disgruntled with having to cover for the klutz in their midst. I didn't blame them, but I was determined not to give them any excuse to get me into trouble. I needed this job.

That particular day passed uneventfully which was about all I was aiming for at the moment. As I clocked out I exhaled for what felt like the first time that day, before remembering the purgatory I still had to endure that evening: Amelia's thirty-first birthday. The one silver lining to the occasion was that Roger would be there. We hadn't had much fun recently.

After getting changed in a tube station toilet, something I just knew would horrify my sister if she ever found out, I made my way to the restaurant where she was holding court. In truth, it wasn't a million miles away from Faim, both in literal distance and in the overall style of the place. Mock-French seemed to the fashion at that moment and the menu was littered with accents and feminine nouns. It was very Amelia, I mused, as I worked up the courage to actually walk in. Hopefully Roger would already be there.

'Catherine? Oh my goodness!' Before I could hunt for my elusive boyfriend, I was faced with a gushing friend of Amelia's. It took me a couple of seconds to work out who it was – they all seemed so similar and polished – and then I realised it didn't matter anyway: so long as I let Tabitha rattle on about whatever gossip she had heard, she'd be happy.

Now she greeted me with a kiss on each cheek, yet another continental habit that seemed in vogue at that time. Before I could do more than say hello, she'd set off.

'It's so good to see you! Amelia never mentioned you were coming. I mean, it's only natural you should be, with you being her sister, but even so… after… recent events…' Momentarily, Tabitha's social propriety overrode her need to talk. Then she recovered. 'Anyway, it's so nice of you to be here! Are you going in? You know Paul of course, my husband?'

Another carbon copy. I nodded my assertion that I did know Paul, because there seemed little that I wouldn't know about him. No doubt he worked in the City and drove an obscenely expensive car and played golf on the weekends and was completely devoid of any interesting features whatsoever. I'd seen all of this before. As the three of us entered the restaurant, my craving for my bohemian only grew larger. I hoped today had gone well.

'Catherine, so nice you could make it.' Amelia greeted me much more coolly than Tabitha had, and I saw the other woman's embarrassment that she'd been quite so friendly towards someone who wasn't in favour at the moment. Even thinking about the complicated social rules that I was agreeing to by being here made the ache in my feet and back worse. I couldn't believe I'd ever agreed to this.

'Happy birthday.' I handed over the small gift I'd bought earlier that week. 'It's nothing much.'

'Thank you, so kind of you.' Ever the gracious hostess, Amelia added my paltry gift to the already overwhelming mountain of them in a box behind her chair. 'We've just ordered drinks, but Andrew will call the waitress back over, won't you?'

'There's really no need,' I began, but spoke far too late, as Amelia's husband had already clicked his fingers and brought the waitress running. I flushed scarlet out of embarrassment as I ordered a tap water; sometimes my brother in-law was just too much.

It was clear that I was one of the last people to arrive, and that my tardiness had been noticed by everybody else there, especially my mother whose mouth had set itself into a grim line upon my arrival. My father and James were attending a work function that evening, and so her full attention was upon the black sheep of the family. I could already feel her disapproval coming across the table in waves.

'Is… Roger not with you?' Amelia ventured after a brief pause as the waitress scurried away to pour my meagre tap water. I didn't need to look up from my chipped nails to know she'd exchanged glances with just about everybody else around the table.

Refraining from asking her where exactly I could have hidden him, I kept my head down and shook it. 'No. He must be running late.' I'd been late myself as the waitress taking over from me had been delayed by a delay on the Picadilly line. But what was Roger's excuse?

'Oh.' Amelia paused. 'Do you think he'd mind very much if we ordered?'

I raised my eyes to hers. My sister was a stickler for manners and what she was proposing was one of the most impolite things I'd heard for a while – and I'd spent the winter in New York City. I'd attended dozens of lunches where people had arrived over an hour behind schedule and all the people who were there dared to do was order a second bottle of wine. Punctuality wasn't usually these people's strong point. But apparently there was a different rule for American unemployed musicians. I didn't have the energy to argue.

But I did have the energy to worry, and worry I did throughout the entire first and second courses. I couldn't pin down what exactly I was concerned about, as my mind flitted from Roger's recent moods to any manner of accidents that could have befallen him on his travels, such as traffic collisions, falling masonry and his having inadvertently become involved in gang warfare. Alongside my sometimes irrational worries, there was a growing sense of irritation that he'd leave me to the wolves in such a way. Somewhere inside I wondered if he had deliberately missed this meal.

Somehow I drifted through the meal, occasionally making a brief comment in response to a direct question from family or friends. It was obvious I was some kind of oddity to these people, a freak which they had the benefit of being able to quiz over the strange choices she had made. Without Roger, though, I was a bit of a disappointment, and so I found myself ignored for much of the evening. I wasn't complaining about that.

As the plates from our main course were cleared away, and I was afforded yet another chance to witness how rude my sister's friends could be to waiting staff, I wondered if I should phone home. His being there and not here wouldn't console me much, but it would at least prove he was still alive which had to be a good thing. I'd all but made up my mind to slip away to the toilet and use the payphone in the foyer when Andrew rattled his glass in the superior way that only he could and stood up.

'I'd just like to thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate my wife's birthday.' He beamed around the table, a man in his element. I wished he'd hurry up. 'It means a lot to us to have so many friends and family here this evening. Just before we move onto dessert, I'd like to propose a toast. To my beautiful wife, who grows more elegant and accomplished with each day that goes by. Amelia.'

'Amelia.' Glasses were raised and sipped. It didn't even register with me at that moment that Amelia's own glass was suspiciously empty. Whether anybody else noticed or not, I wasn't sure. In that instant, all I was bothered about was getting away from this table to see if I could locate Roger at all.

And yet Andrew was still talking. 'I said it meant a lot to us to have you all here this evening. It's unfortunate that some people have been unable to make it – Amelia's father and brother, for instance – because we had hoped for everybody to be here. But no matter. Amelia and I have a little announcement to make you see.' With a quick smile at my sister, her husband said, in the most inarticulate sentence he'd ever made to my ear, 'We're going to be parents!'

'Oh Amelia!'

'Oh how wonderful!'

'That's fantastic news, congratulations!'

'Didn't I say there was something different about her? I said!'

All my mother managed was a heartfelt sob of joy, and I felt tears prickle the back of my eyes. For a moment I set aside my usual feelings towards my sister, and instead was able to give her a genuine smile and congratulations as a woman who was indeed radiating happiness that her blissful secret was finally being shared. There was something much kinder in her face at that moment which I wished I saw more often. It was good news, without a doubt. Even I could see that.

The flurry of excited chatter suddenly stopped. Confused, I looked to see why. And there stood Roger, his white shirt covered in stains of unknown origin and his hair pulled back off his face in an apparently forgotten striped bandana. Embarrassment swept over me in waves as I saw him through everybody else's eyes, yet even then there was a voice in my head which I just couldn't deny: _he looks good_. He looked so much more like his old self again that it took a moment for my annoyance to creep back; it was just so nice to see him with a bit of life in his eyes again.

'I'm sorry I'm late.' Awkwardly, Roger leaned over and gave my sister a highly-studied peck on the cheek. 'Happy birthday, Amelia.' He suddenly became aware that everybody was looking at him with curiosity; Tabitha in particular looked as though she'd just seen a rare species at the zoo. It was almost enough for me to take pity upon him as he retreated to the empty seat next to me and greeted me with a whispered, 'Hey,' and a kiss on the cheek.

It took Amelia a few seconds to regain her usual composure; dinner guests didn't usually arrive just before dessert, after all. 'Nice to see you, Roger. What… delayed you?'

It was the very question I wanted to know the answer to as well. Roger glanced around the table to find everybody else was equally as interested, and then his eyes flickered back to mine as though that was where safety lay.

In a clear but soft voice he said, with more confidence than I had heard him speak in a while, 'I had a job interview and… they wanted me to start straight away.'

And despite the fact he'd let me down, despite his entirely unsuitable attire and the hours of worry he'd put me through this evening, I felt a smile break across my face. Now was hardly the time or place to be addressing those points anyway, and for the moment, I was just pleased to see Roger looking so much better.

It was on the way home that I tentatively broached the subject. After establishing what exactly his job entailed (general skivvy in the kitchens of a chain Tex-Mex restaurant – a job he was probably over-qualified for having spent some time living in New Mexico) and what exactly the stains on his shirt were, I lightly dropped in that perhaps he could have let me know he was going to be late.

'I was going to phone the restaurant when I got off work but I didn't think it would make much difference.' He shrugged awkwardly, clearly knowing that he was in the wrong. 'I didn't want to piss them off on my first day, Cat.'

I could see his point and I tried not to sound too irritable as I said, 'I was worried, though. And… it wasn't very nice being there all on my own all evening.'

That was something Roger could at least understand and he put his arm around me as we walked out of the tube station and towards home. 'Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. Was it awful?'

I thought carefully about my answer. 'Awful' suggested something had been said or done, when in reality, it had been a reasonably uneventful dinner, apart from the baby news. Roger had picked up bits and pieces about that over dessert but we hadn't discussed it properly. For some reason, that seemed much more important than his misdemeanours this evening and so I made an instant decision to forgive him and move on.

'No. It was just a bit awkward. Anyway. What about Amelia?'

'Yeah. Are you okay?'

It was such an unexpected question that I drew to a halt underneath a street lamp to throw him a puzzled look. 'Me? I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be? It's Amelia who's pregnant, not me.'

'I know.' I felt Roger's gaze fall upon me, concern filling his every feature and clouding out some of the elation that had been written into every line on his face since arriving at the meal that evening. It was as though he visibly aged in front of my eyes, reminding me again of the gulf between my experiences in life and his. For several seconds it seemed as though he was going to say something. Then he shook his head, half to himself, and said, 'Okay. Come on, let's get home.'


	47. Chapter 47

**A reasonably short one. It's one of my 2013 goals to finish this one this year so I'm going to try and power on through. Read and review if you get a chance :)**

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><p>Roger's thirty-first birthday in April arrived with a much smaller fanfare than Amelia's had. Indeed, both of us were working until late that night and so apart from a brief few moments in the early morning light, it was after midnight before we really spent any time together. Roger's enthusiasm for cooking had somewhat diminished since it had become his living, and with it being his birthday, I picked up a pizza on the way home. It was less a celebration and more of a quiet curling up together on the sofa and trying to stay awake longer than we had been managing recently.<p>

'Well that was nice.'

'Really?' I wrinkled my nose up at what was left of the pepperoni pizza I'd bought. The grease stains on the box were testament to the sheer unpleasantness of the experience. 'I thought you had better taste.'

'It's not Tex-Mex. That makes anything good in my book. Now. Come here.' Roger gathered me up in his arms and pulled my into his lap, something made more difficult as I burst into fits of giggles as he did so. It was only when I was firmly ensconced on his lap and his mouth was mere millimetres from mine that the laughter subsided and something altogether more serious but no less thrilling shot through my entire body. I still wondered if this was ever going to get old, if I was ever going to want Roger any less than I did right now. As long as he kept looking at me like that, I highly doubted anything was going to change.

'I love you.'

'I love you too.' I smiled, and after a pause added in a whisper, 'You can kiss me now if you like.'

'But I haven't had my present yet.'

'Maybe if you kiss me, you'll get it.'

'Oh really? Is it wrapped up?' His hands moved to the top button of the shirt I was wearing and began to slowly slide the button out of the hole.

And then the phone rang.

'Who's calling at this time?' Roger frowned, his hand remaining where it was as he was caught unawares.

Despite the interruption, I couldn't help a grin spreading across my face. 'If you don't answer it, you'll never know.'

'Cat?' he said questioningly, eyeing my suspiciously. 'What have you done?'

'Answer it.' I waved a hand towards the phone on the table next to us.

Roger reached for it and lifted it to his ear. 'Hello?' Confusion turned suddenly to surprise and then laughter. 'Mark? What the…? What are you calling for? She what?' He shot me a bemused look. 'No, she didn't tell me. I'm sure she was just about to.'

I giggled and climbed out of his lap. 'I'll leave you boys to it.'

Mark had kept in touch via letter since we'd moved to London, but phone calls had been rare. The time difference was the main issue and so I knew that a call from his best friend on his birthday would make Roger's day. He never said much about Mark apart from to crack a joke at his expense, but I knew he missed him. God, I missed him and I'd not even known him twelve months yet; Roger had lived with him for over ten years. Tempting Roger away from that close circle of friends was still something that sat uncomfortably with me and anything I could do to sew the seams of that particular relationship back together would never quite repay the debt I owed Mark. I could definitely give the two of them some time alone to talk today.

I busied myself tidying our bedroom and bathroom to the soundtrack of Roger's laughter. It was something I didn't very often force myself into doing, and something to which Roger seemed oblivious, so it took much longer than it should have, and even stifled the tiny jealous voice in my head which wanted to be a party to the men's conversation. Even so, when Roger's voice drifted through from the living area, I was more than ready for some company again, and returned to his lap without any second request.

'Surprised?'

'In more ways than one.' Roger's eyes flickered over my face, his mouth unable to contain the smile that speaking to someone from home had brought, but there was something else as well – a certain gravity and tension which instantly set me worrying.

'What's happened?'

He gave a small laugh, even as the concern remained in his eyes. 'What makes you think something's happened?' Then, without waiting for an answer, he said, 'Mark's invited us for Thanksgiving.'

A little taken aback, I giggled. 'In November? It's only March, since when did Mark plan ahead?'

'Stacey's pregnant.' It was clear that the words had fallen out of Roger's mouth without his express approval, as he followed them up with a slightly less blunt, 'Mark… Mark wants us to meet the baby. It's due in September.'

It took me several seconds to get my head around the news, and I was fairly certain that I sat with my mouth unattractively open for the duration of my thought process. Even from the other side of the Atlantic, it was clear that Mark and Stacey's relationship had been hotting up. It wasn't as though Mark wrote in intricate detail about her or stated she was his girlfriend in as many words, but her name was cropping up so frequently in his letters that it was obvious that, now a certain time-consuming friend had relocated from New York to London, Mark had much more time to cultivate his own friendships. Yet this was an unexpected event, and what's more, my maths was fairly good. If the baby was due in September…

'So… new year?' was all I was eventually able to get out, much to Roger's amusement. 'They… oh my God!'

'Yeah.' For a moment, Roger seemed genuinely thrilled for his best friend, and then his face clouded again as he stroked the hair back off of my face. 'So… do you want to go for Thanksgiving?'

'Of course I do!' The thought of seeing our friends – plus baby – less than nine months away filled me with an energy that had been lacking over the last few weeks. The thought of my aching limbs reminded me. 'Can we afford it, though?'

'Sure.' The answer was given easily and seemingly without much thought; Roger had decided we could afford it and therefore we could. It was a split second decision which I would think back on in the months to come, one which came with its own series of consequences. Right then, I overlooked it.

'But how is Mark?' Knowing him as I did, I couldn't really imagine him taking imminent fatherhood in his stride.

'Anxious.' Roger smiled fondly. 'Worrying. Stressed. The usual.'

'Lucky Stacey.' I rolled my eyes, wondering how she was going to cope with a full on Cohen-style freakout. Yet even then I smiled. 'He's going to make a brilliant dad.'

'Yeah.' Roger spoke absent-mindedly, still playing with my hair. Then, 'You okay?'

'Yes. Why wouldn't I be?' I frowned, remembering that talk on the way home from Amelia's birthday. 'Why do you keep asking if I'm okay?'

There was a pause, a heavy Davis-special pause, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of saying something. He'd been getting better at this. Then he shrugged, the tension dissipating. 'I don't know. Just checking. I guess I just miss you.'

I forgot my suspicion as I smiled. 'Urgh, could you be any soppier?' I giggled and then pulled his face closer to mine. 'I'm here now. Where were we earlier?'

A pause again. And then, 'I thought I might call my mom.' He pulled a face. 'Sorry, I know, total mood killer, sorry.'

'Don't be silly.' I shook my head. 'It's your birthday. You haven't called her in a while anyway, I'm sure she'd love to hear from you.' It was almost a relief to not have to nag him to contact his parents; old habits definitely died hard with Roger.

'It's just hearing from Mark…'

'Rog.' I smiled and stroked his face fondly. 'It's fine. Honestly.' Kissing him on the cheek, I added, 'I'll go and warm the bed up, shall I?'

He smiled. 'Yeah. I won't be long.'

I believed him when he said that. Roger and telephones and his parents – they'd always be a difficult combination, and I expected him to be joining me in under ten minutes.

An hour later I fell asleep, still alone in bed.


	48. Chapter 48

Going to sleep alone with something I'd become very familiar with over the next few months. Familiar with but not used to. It was strange how quickly I'd become accustomed to Roger's presence in my bed. After all the years I'd all but cherished a night away from Sam, now I found myself restlessly tossing and turning, as though my body felt the need to use every inch of spare space in the bed to try and make up for Roger's absence. I rarely woke up feeling refreshed in those months.

Barely had we got used to our new routine of spending all day in our jobs, when Roger decided to change it. At the time, his insistence upon looking for new employment seemed illogical to me.

'But what's wrong with the Tex-Mex job?' I asked, not for the first time, and received the usual sceptical raised eyebrow. 'Alright, I get it, you hate it. But Roger… it's a job.'

'And I'll find another one, a better one.' He scrawled a circle around another advert in the newspaper, whilst taking a long swig on a cup of coffee. It was a rare day off for both of us, driven more by our employers' desire not to fall foul of employment law rather than our own insistence upon time off. I'd looked forward to it all week though, and yet instead of spending a lazy morning in bed together, I'd been woken up at six-thirty by Roger's refusal to break out of routine; there was no way he was missing his early morning jog for even one day. To say I'd been in a slightly grumpy mood ever since was putting it lightly. Now he seemed intent on making my mood even worse by throwing himself into job hunting again.

I glanced over his shoulder now at the jobs he'd circled. What I saw caused me to snatch the newspaper out of his hands, forgetting all the etiquette my parents had ever taught me. 'Nightclubs? You won't get home until I'm leaving for work! I hardly see you now!'

'And it'll always be like that if we keep working these jobs.' He shrugged and took the newspaper back without so much as an exclamation over my rudeness. I'd never seen him concentrate so hard on anything; this was like the previous job search supersized. 'I'm not going to leave the Tex-Mex gig until I get a new job, relax.'

But I couldn't because this wasn't what we'd come here for. 'What _about_ gigs, Roger? What about your music? You've hardly touched your guitar in weeks.'

'It doesn't matter.' He shrugged. 'Maybe I should just sell it.'

'Don't you dare! I bought you that!'

'Okay.' He held his hands up in defence. 'Alright, I won't sell it. I didn't know you cared so much.'

'I care about _you_!' I rolled my eyes. 'Rog, please. You'll make yourself ill.'

'I'm fine!' Then he lifted his head from the newspaper and gave me a smile, speaking much more gently than before. 'Honestly, Cat… I'm fine. It's just something I have to do, okay? I'm not gonna do anything stupid.'

'There's a first.'

His smile broadened and he slipped his arm around my waist. 'Witty. You know what?'

'What?'

'You're pretty hot when you get mad.' He nuzzled my hair in a more than affectionate way.

'Oh really?' I tried to sound unimpressed but couldn't hide the smile which crept across my own face.

'Really.' Taking me unawares, he gave me a fierce kiss, before saying bluntly, 'So… bed?'

I'd have laughed if I wasn't so taken aback that all I could was nod before he scooped me up and carried me to the bedroom.

* * *

><p>Kisses could make up for some of the problems over the next few months, but not everything. Roger proved true the rule that it was easier to get a job once you already had one. What's more, he went one better, securing two: one in an Italian restaurant and one in a bar with a late licence. He seemed more than delighted with his luck, as the bar alone paid more per hour than the Tex-Mex job had, and I didn't like to voice my concerns; it was the first time he'd seemed content ever since we came to London.<p>

As for me, I'd made some progress with the waitressing. On some days I even thought that Pete and Lydia might be proud of their apprentice, although there still seemed to be a vast difference between the standard I'd reached and the standard that actually gained much in tips. I tried not to become jealous of the others, who were not only younger than I was, but also skipping out every evening with substantial wads of cash in their hands. It wasn't easy to feel charitable towards them all the time, but it was infinitely harder not to feel resentful towards the patrons who dropped a paltry handful of change onto my table at the end of their three-figure meal. Smiling sweetly and graciously on those occasions was almost enough to make me scream.

It wouldn't be forever, though; I had to keep reminding myself of that. One day soon we had to hit upon some luck, and then we'd laugh at the things we were putting ourselves through now.

Or that was the theory. It didn't keep me that warm at night though.

An average day under our new routine saw Roger leaving the flat for his morning run and returning just as I was getting ready to leave. If we were especially lucky, we'd have time to share a coffee before I headed to another day of near misses with china and glassware. Roger began work at the Italian restaurant at around the same time as I had my lunch break, and moved onto the bar just as I was clocking off for the evening. A lonely meal for one in front of the TV was all I had to drag myself home for, and I fell asleep long before Roger slumped into bed beside me in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes we'd exchange a few mumbled words, meaningless epithets over how our days had gone. Then we'd both crash out until the cycle began again about six hours later. With Roger working two jobs, his days off became practically non-existent, and so it was with a great deal of coercion that my manager managed to make me take any time off. Rattling around in my apartment by myself didn't really appeal.

Still, after the hectic treadmill we'd been on for the last few months, a lie-in wasn't to be overlooked. The fact that Roger still insisted upon his run was a little disappointing; even my promise that I could think of an equally good way to stay in shape fell on surprisingly deaf ears, and I fell back asleep once he'd left for the day, only waking up when there was a loud knocking at the front door.

Confused, it took me several seconds to work out what was going on. It was only as I stumbled my way towards the front door, pulling one of Roger's jumpers on as I went, that it dawned on me that nobody but Roger or I had set foot inside that door in the four months since we'd moved here. What's more, I thought as I reached for the handle, anybody who had come to visit should have had to buzz up first. A frown settled across my face, which only intensified as the figure on the other side of the door became clear to me.

'James?' was all I could squeak out.

'Hello Catherine.' My older brother looked unusually awkward and gave one of those embarrassed half-waves that suit nobody. 'I'm… not interrupting anything am I?'

One hand went to my unruly hair that I'd been intending to wash that morning whilst the other fiddled with the unravelling hem of the jumper. I tried not to let my appearance embarrass me, but I knew that his raised eyebrows said more than his polite upbringing would ever allow him to actually say: he'd never seen me look quite such a mess. Perhaps the most depressing thing was that this was a pretty usual look for me at the moment.

Then the same polite upbringing I'd had kicked in. 'Oh, no, nothing. I was just… come in.' I opened the door wider, tugging the hem of the jumper ever lower. 'This is a bit of a surprise.'

'I was in the area.' James stepped inside and it felt as though I was seeing the apartment through his eyes: the washing up stacked in the sink, the discarded coats and shoes and – oh God – bras and knickers lying around the living area. The place looked like a jumble sale. Tidying up should probably have been on my list for that day as well.

'Do you want a coffee or anything?' I said, trying to remember how you treated guests. 'Or tea or… I don't know…'

James didn't reply immediately, as he continued to look around the apartment. Then he turned his gaze to me, and the blood rushed to the surface of my skin as I imagined exactly what he was seeing when he looked at me. This was like the morning Mark had walked in on me after Christmas, only twenty times worse.

Eventually, in a voice which sounded artificially calm, he said, 'I was thinking we could go for lunch actually. I've got the day off work.'

'Oh. Me too.' I bit my lip and forced a playful smile. 'Surely there must be better ways for you to spend the day than taking your little sister out though?'

'Not that I can think of.' James's face was sterner than I'd seen it before; there were shades of my father around his jawline all of a sudden. 'I'll wait while you get dressed.'

When he spoke like that, I had little choice. I traipsed back to the bedroom with a sick feeling in my stomach: today wasn't going to be pretty.

Despite my best efforts at pretending I couldn't decide what to have for lunch and insisting upon the waiter reading the specials at least twice, there was only so much time I could kill before I was left alone with James. The truth was that everything on the menu was making my mouth water; Roger and I had lived on a fairly meagre diet since Amelia's birthday meal several weeks ago.

Finally, our menus were taken away and any physical barrier I had created between the two of us was gone. I braced myself for James' first comment.

'You look really thin.'

I gave a nervous laugh of surprise. 'Thank you.'

'It wasn't a compliment.' My brother looked me up and down, his face stony serious. 'You look ill.'

'Seriously. Thank you.' I rolled my eyes and covered up my anxiety with a swig of wine. I tried to ignore the fact that I knew he was right; the fitted dress I'd pulled out of my pre-Roger wardrobe hung off of me in all the wrong places. Being thin had been something I'd aspired to ever since I was old enough to care about those things, and I could still remember my excitement last summer when I'd realised that I was the lightest adult weight I'd ever been. Coupled with a tan and endless days in which to achieve nothing, it had seemed quite a feat. Now, in the middle of an English May, I knew my weight loss wasn't glamorous anymore; it was the sort of gaunt that spoke of too little sleep and too much anxiety.

My guard was up now, though, and I raised my eyebrows at James challengingly. 'You weren't really just in the area today, were you?'

He at least had the good grace to look a little sheepish. 'It was more than a coincidence. But Catherine,' he added, hastily, and I tried not to pull a face at the name, 'we're worried about you.'

'Who is?'

'Everybody.' He pulled his own face as I raised my eyebrows again. 'Look, I know Mother and Father were a bit… surprised when you arrived home from America-'

I scoffed.

'-but you did give them a shock.' Under his subsequent gaze, I felt the blood rise to my cheeks a little, knowing once again that he was right. 'You just haven't seemed yourself recently.'

I was unable to prevent a smile playing on my mouth, which bemused James. From their point of view, I supposed he was right once again: the Catherine Carter they'd known for twenty-six years had practically vanished overnight. That she had never been who I was really was perhaps more than they could comprehend.

'So did they send you here to check up on me?' Feeling under attack, my prickliest defences came to the fore, remembering all those times that my parents and even Sam had used James, the most diplomatic member of our family, to try to explain what social faux pas I'd committed this time. I should probably have expected this visit long before now, straight after my boyfriend had arrived wearing a headband to my sister's birthday dinner.

'No. Actually, they don't know I'm here.' That surprised me; James was nothing if not loyal to the family. A small part of me felt bad for the hard time I was giving him; it wasn't his fault he had the name Carter running through him like a stick of Blackpool rock. 'If I'm honest, Catherine, they'd probably rather I wasn't.'

'I suppose they think I'll come crawling back sooner or later?'

'Something like that.' James gave me a small smile which didn't quite cover up the fact that he believed that too. Even then I couldn't blame him for his beliefs. My father believed in hard work, but not in jobs like Roger and I had, with no chance of promotion or the chance to mix in the right circles. My family were no more able to exist in my new life than I'd been able to exist in theirs.

'Well I won't be. I'm fine. I'm… happy.' I hoped he'd overlook the fact that my voice choked a little on the last word. It wasn't that I was miserable, after all. I was with Roger, living our life day after day. It was everything I'd wanted. It was just much harder than I'd anticipated it could be. Even after everything I'd been through, with Sam and with Roger, I'd never quite realised how much you could miss someone whilst they were sharing a bed with you.

For a moment, I thought James was going to pursue the issue. I prayed he wouldn't, because I didn't know how I'd be able to convince him of my happiness suddenly. Everything that sounded so reasonable usually would, I was sure, break up like glass against James's rationality.

Then he said, 'Well, I'm glad you are. Really. But… if you ever find you're not…' He left the sentence unfinished, either deliberately or because our main course had arrived. We made small talk over the meal, surprisingly easily, the only awkward moment arriving when he insisted upon settling the bill. I made vague disgruntled noises even as I knew I'd never be able to cover the costs. James headed one way out of the restaurant and I turned back to the apartment.

I spent the afternoon cleaning.

* * *

><p>I didn't mention James' visit to Roger for several days. In honesty, it was four days before we spent more than ten minutes at a time within each other's presence. Four days gave me ample time to think things over, to pull apart my brother's word and expression. My afternoon tidying and cleaning had briefly raised my spirits as everything around me seemed fresher and clearer. After a few days, however, it was like I had never even lifted a duster; Roger hadn't even acknowledged the efforts I'd gone to and somehow that small fact lodged itself somewhere underneath my rib cage. I knew it was stupid. Neither of us were sticklers for order and never had been. I was expecting too much again.<p>

Even so, as he rolled into bed at what was increasingly feeling like almost time to get up again, I couldn't help a stab of resentment flashing through me as I felt rather than saw him abandon his clothes in an untidy heap on the floor. As he leaned over to give me the usual smoke-infused goodnight kiss, I mumbled, 'Could you try not to make such a mess?'

Instantly he pulled away. 'What?'

Regret set in instantly. 'It… doesn't matter.' I yawned widely, hoping he'd let it drop.

'What did you mean?' No hope here, then.

I reluctantly dragged my eyes open. 'Just… try and be a bit tidier in future.'

Roger looked incredulously from me to the clothes he'd just stepped out of. I tried not to notice the heavy shadows underneath his eyes and how dull his skin looked. He'd just worked for over twelve hours straight; I was such a bitch.

'You… want me to pick them up… _now_?'

'Oh, Rog, it doesn't matter…' I tried to say, but he'd already forced himself back out of bed, as if summoning his last reserves of energy. In one movement he'd swept up the tangle of jeans and t-shirt and stalked out of the bedroom. Within minutes I heard water running and the clattering of the dishes still left in the sink from this morning's breakfast. I winced as a smash indicated that his rough handling had ended with a breakage. It was almost one o'clock in the morning; we both had to be up again in less than six hours. I should go and apologise and bring him back to bed.

Another crash made my mind up for me. I rolled over and tried to ignore the angry sounds from the kitchen.


	49. Chapter 49

**I'm pushing on with this even if very few people are still reading it. This is a reasonably lengthy chapter, the next one will likely be much shorter. You'll see why when you get there! I want to get this story finished this year, so hopefully there should be a flurry of updates in the near future. Thanks for hanging on in there!**

* * *

><p>I'd often read of the sheer mind-numbing exhaustion new parents experienced as the realities of a demanding and largely irrational new presence in their lives set in. I doubted even Roger could be quite as demanding as a baby, but as the weeks rolled on into June, James's comments repeatedly came back to haunt me. I stopped even glancing in mirrors to check my hair or make-up, something which probably didn't help my appearance all that much but at least spared my knowing I didn't look good. It was surprising all the places you could stumble across your own reflection though, especially working in a restaurant; suddenly saucepans and well-polished glasses were becoming something I dreaded. I might have been pounds lighter than in the past, but I'd never felt more unattractive. More than once it crossed my mind that perhaps it wasn't just work keeping Roger away from our bed as often as he was.<p>

Roger's arrival home from the bar was something I was rarely conscious enough to acknowledge anymore. Somewhere I was aware of the bedsprings creaking and a brief grazing of his lips across my forehead, but on the average day, I saw Roger for less than ten minutes. If I'd sat down and thought about this it would have been soul-destroying; luckily, sitting down and thinking was not something I had much time for.

Certainly, sitting down was strongly discouraged at work, and besides, sitting down allowed the throb in my feet to actually take hold. Faim had followed the trajectory the owners had clearly desired when they opened it and was suddenly _the_ place to be, at least for this month. If I wasn't so dejected, I might have almost been excited to have my workplace featured so often in the glossy magazines that had dictated how I lived my life up until meeting Roger. A new review seemed to be rolling in every week, full of praise for everything from the food to the 'postmodern' décor. What was postmodern about it was unclear, but it seemed to make everybody around me pleased. There were even rumours of a possible pay rise.

With the new popularity came new events, as people with more money than they quite knew what to do with booked the entire restaurant out for such minor occasions as gaining a new contract at work. These events provided new challenges for the whole staff as we circulated with endless trays of canapés and drinks, dodging the more amorous advances of drunken City boys as the evening wore on. They were a definite disappointment to those who had grown used to the large tips they'd received as part of their normal shifts; people didn't tend to consider carrying vol-u-vents to be a job worth paying extra for.

So it was with some reluctance that everybody dragged themselves into work one Friday afternoon, several having had their day off cancelled in order to work yet another private function. My own feelings probably weren't as low as the others, at least not for the same reasons. I'd overheard several people complaining about the plans they'd made and dates they'd had to cancel in order to work; I knew that I'd only have spent any time off I had rattling around my lonely apartment on my own. Being at work was almost a relief.

The _maître d_ was giving the usual spiel, dividing jobs up more or less as equally as possible, but still unable to completely avoid the eye rolls and murmurs of favouritism. The hierarchy of the restaurant was something that never failed to amuse me, as people complained that Charlotte _always_ got the good jobs carrying the champagne flutes, whilst they _always_ got left on smoked salmon duty. I'd have smiled if I could have mustered up the enthusiasm.

'Now, please remember that this evening is a highly exclusive event. There will be some very important guests attending and the press will likely be present. It is therefore of the upmost importance that we maintain our standards of excellence and professionalism.' His voice drifted on and I wondered if anybody was really listening, until his next words made my ears suddenly burn. 'Mr Bovey wishes his engagement party to be the finest event of the year and we are not going to disappoint him.'

It had to be a coincidence. Bovey was hardly an unusual name. And yet…

'Mr Bovey? Sam Bovey?' The words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them. It was probably the longest string of words I'd uttered in a long time at work, having given up on even trying to socialise with the other waiters and waitresses. Suddenly everybody's eyes had turned to look at me.

The _maître d_ gave a world-weary sigh and a look of irritation flashed across his face. 'Yes, Catherine. Sam Bovey. I do hope you're not going to embarrass us this evening.'

Not for the first time, I regretted having applied for the job using my full name; he sounded so like my mother in that moment that a fierce blush spread across my face. It was clear he thought I was nothing more than a fan of Sam's pretty-boy looks and parts in romantic dramas. To even try and explain the truth was beyond me, and I fell into abashed silence as I tried to digest the information.

Sam was engaged. I'd not spoken to anybody from our social circle in months, and since James had visited almost five weeks ago I hadn't had any contact with my family either. It was news to me that he was even dating again, although I could have kicked myself for being so naïve: he'd never been short of admirers, and more. There was always somebody who would be desperate to be the next woman pictured on the arm of Sam Bovey. If I'd imagined him crying into his pillow at night without me, it had only ever been a fantasy, and somewhere deep inside I knew that. But to be engaged? Already?

I went about my preparations for the evening in somewhat of a daze, breaking three glasses and dropping more cutlery than I dared to count. Each accident was met with yet more groans and glares from the rest of the staff as they had to pick up the slack and bail me out. I couldn't help thinking how disappointed Lydia would be after all the time she'd spent training me: here I was making all the same mistakes I was a year ago. I certainly hadn't impressed many people here and at one point it seemed as though I was on the brink of being sent home for the day entirely. Part of me would have been grateful.

By that evening, I'd had my role in the whole enterprise significantly downgraded to that of collecting empty glasses. This was probably still quite a risk given my record with glasses that day, but it seemed to be the job deemed least likely to cause a scene. Certainly it was less high risk than my spilling a tray of bellinis over the happy couple. Collecting empty glasses was also a low-profile task which I hoped would mean I was below the notice of any of the guests.

For the first hour of the party, this much was true. There was little for me to do and so I lurked in darkened corners, avoiding eye contact with anybody and everybody. There were so many guests I recognised from my own engagement party that I was pleased I was tucked away from sight. The smell of money and glamour was in the air, and I was heartened to see that, far from being starstruck, my fellow serving staff were barely maintaining their professional grins long enough to turn away from the guests. Muttered grumbles caught my ear as they walked away, mumbling 'Lecherous twat' or 'Obnoxious bitch.' A small smile creased the corners of my mouth at times, as I had to concur with their assessments; they were exactly the kinds of comments I'd been making silently for years.

Soon, the empty glasses started piling up and I reluctantly left my refuge and started the first of many shuttle runs to the kitchen. My presence was almost beneath their notice anyway, as one person placed their flute onto my already overflowing tray without so much as a nod of acknowledgement. If I wasn't so keen on being invisible, I might have felt angry. Instead, I was relieved. Perhaps this evening wouldn't be so awful after all.

The night wore on and the glasses were emptied as quickly as they were refilled, especially once the photographers from the specially selected glossy magazine had disappeared. Now they didn't have to worry about what would be printed about them in the morning, the rich and beautiful people were able to party without constraint. The restaurant was filled with noise and false laughter, and I went even more unnoticed than before. I became more confident. Too confident. The tray was too full and I knew it before I'd even turned around but by then it was too late.

The smashing of glass made everybody turn around to look at the source of the trouble. Frozen to the spot, I lifted my eyes up from the floor, and met his. Sam's. Of course.

He looked good. Well, of course he did, he'd always looked good. His skin had a healthy golden glow and a broad smile on his face, at least until he set eyes on me. For a moment it seemed as though he didn't recognise me, as though I were simply some waitress making a mess at his engagement party. I recognised that look on his face which said he was about to make a formal complaint about a service worker who'd failed to meet his standards. Blood rushed to my cheeks at the shame of my ex-fiancee not even recognising me. For an instant, I wasn't sure which was more embarrassing: his finding me in this situation or not knowing me at all.

Then his eyes widened and I knew without a doubt that it would have been better if he'd simply turned his back on me without a second look. His horror and disgust was written on every inch of his face and I felt beads of sweat break out across my forehead. For a moment it was difficult to breathe as I struggled to know what to do or say.

Then he made it easy for me. He placed a hand on the small of the back of the woman next to him and said 'Come on, darling, let's allow this mess to be cleaned up.' Then they were gone, swallowed up in the crowd of friends, acquaintances and well-wishers. As if I was nobody or nothing.

As I stumbled away from the chaos I'd left in search of privacy and fresh air, I realised that the worst thing wasn't being recognised or not; the worst thing was being ignored.

Outside I fought back the tears that had been threatening to spill over for weeks, or so it seemed. I didn't really know what I was crying for, but there they were nonetheless. I choked back sobs as I leaned against the building and tried to find some composure.

'Catherine Carter?' I jumped as a voice came out of the shadows. My heart hammered in my chest for a few seconds until Meg, a fellow waitress, stepped out into the streetlight. She had a cigarette in her hand and took a long drag on it before saying, '_The_ Catherine Carter? As in, Sam Bovey's ex-fiance?'

'How…?'

Meg smiled, not unkindly, confessing in a sing-song voice, 'My name's Meg and I'm addicted to celebrity magazines? I thought I recognised you from somewhere. You had that amazing dress for your engagement party.'

It was a strange comment to make, and a laugh overtook my sobs. 'Did I?'

'You don't remember?' Meg looked appalled as she blew out a ring of smoke. 'It was black and glamorous. Very Winona Ryder.'

Now that she mentioned it, I did vaguely remember the dress my mother had chosen for the occasion, her confidence in my ability to select appropriate attire at an all-time low. It had been a beautiful dress but I'd never even pulled it out of my wardrobe in the years since that debut. Clearly it had made more of an impression on Meg than it ever had on me.

'So is he the one who got away?' she asked now, flicking ash onto the ground. I must have looked startled as she gestured at my general state. 'Well, crying at his engagement party…'

'I'm not crying!' I lied, sounding harsher than I meant to, ashamed at my behaviour. 'I'm…' I couldn't put it into words and so I simply shook my head and shrugged, hoping it would convey the confusion.

It seemed enough for Meg, who leaned back against the building beside me, almost companionably. After several puffs on her cigarette she mused, 'This must be a pretty shit way to meet your ex. Still, it could be worse, you could have…' She tailed off and looked at me, a vague expression of horror mixed with pity on her face. 'Oh. You dropped something didn't you?'

I nodded mutely.

'Shit. That's pretty bad.'

'Thanks,' I mumbled, wondering if she was deliberately trying to make me feel worse.

'But you did break it off with him, right?'

I nodded. 'Yes. How…?'

With a laugh, Meg replied, 'Well, if he'd dumped you, I'd imagine you'd be all snuggled away in your rich world, drying your eyes on silk sheets and drowning your sorrows in champagne. Not picking shards of glass up from his feet at his engagement party.' The image of what Meg thought my old life was like brought a smile to my face despite myself. 'So, you dumped him. What's the issue? Unless you've changed your mind?'

The question hung in the air along with her smoke for a second before my brain fully clicked into gear. 'What? No!' It was the most sure I'd felt about anything for a very long time. Even being in that room this evening, feeling all the familiar tensions of all those long events I'd attended with Sam… my choice had been entirely the right one.

'Then…?' It seemed I'd even baffled the apparently unflappable Meg as she gestured around emptily. 'Sorry, I just… I don't get it.'

The very simple statement made me give a small snort of laughter even as fresh tears sprang up in my eyes. 'It's complicated.'

'Isn't it always?' Meg spoke with a cynicism far beyond her years. She was younger than I was, with long dark hair and, I noticed now, more than the regulation one small pair of studs in her ears. Her eyes were heavy with eyeliner and her large pouting lips were a deep shade of crimson. Glad for some distracted from my misery, I was momentarily baffled by how she'd ever managed to maintain a job at this place, with its stiff rules and expectations of all members of staff.

Her next words all but spelt it for me.

'Look, take a few minutes to calm down. I'll cover for you with Karl.' It took me a second to remember the _maître d_'s name. 'He owes me a favour or two,' she added, with a rueful grin. My face must have registered my surprise; I would never have put Meg and Karl in the same sentence. 'Like I said, it's complicated.' She crushed the cigarette under foot before turning to go back into the restaurant.

She paused in the doorway. 'For what it's worth…' I raised my head to look at her. 'He seems a bit of a prat. You made a good choice.'

I didn't know why, but the endorsement of somebody I barely knew somehow made this feel a little better.

* * *

><p>The evening was over, and despite all my best efforts to regain control of the empty glass situation, the restaurant looked as though a tornado had torn through it. With yawns and grumbles, we set about trying to return it to its former glory. A glance at my watch suggested that Roger might even make it home before me tonight, then I put aside any thoughts of him as tears pooled in my eyes again. I hadn't missed him so much for a while.<p>

Finally it seemed as though we had completed the job, and the _maître d_ – or Karl, as I was trying to think of him – clapped his hands to get our attention.

'That's a wrap, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your hard work this evening.' A general whoop of relief went around the room and people immediately headed for the staffroom to collect their belongings. I'd barely taken two steps before I heard, 'Catherine?'

I tried to ignore both my sinking heart and my aching feet as I turned back towards him. Trying to think about him as Karl, a person, not the Boss almost calmed my stomach, but not quite. I wondered if he was very different on his own, when he was with Meg. I hoped so.

'Tonight was a disaster.'

I blinked at his blunt words, so far away from his usual professional icy cool demeanour.

'Well, wasn't it?'

'Y-Yes,' I stammered and prepared myself for a list of everything I'd done wrong and all the many ways I'd let down the good name of Faim. A hundred occasions when I'd stood in front of my parents or Sam flashed through my mind. All of those times I'd listened and accepted what they'd said. Now I prepared myself for a fight, to beg if I had to for this job that I didn't even like very much. Going home with my P45 in hand wasn't an option though.

I took a deep breath and waited.

'Don't let it happen again.'

'Sorry?' I frowned.

'I said, don't let it happen again,' he repeated, as if for somebody hard of hearing. 'Is that clear?'

I nodded mutely, unsure whether I could quite believe what I was hearing. As Karl turned back to his clipboard, perhaps to tick off 'bollock Catherine Carter', I said, 'So… I… I'm not fired then?'

'Fired?' He looked up at me incredulously. 'Don't be ridiculous. I haven't got the time to train anybody new at the moment. Just don't let it happen again.'

'No.' I nodded hastily. 'Thank you. I'll… see you tomorrow?'

Karl gave me a suitably withering look before turning back to his clipboard. I wondered if the clipboard went home with him and whether that was what attracted Meg. Then I beat a hasty retreat before my imaginings went too far.

The event had finished long after the Tube had stopped running and the evening had exhausted me: there was no way I was braving the night bus. The taxi was a little expensive, but I suddenly wanted to be home as soon as possible, reminding myself of just how right the choice I'd made was. My tears from earlier had dried leaving a burning desire to see Roger, to talk to him and wrap myself up in him. It was a physical need which overtook my exhaustion, at least momentarily. I wanted Roger.

I opened the apartment door, glancing at the flashing clock on the VCR. It was almost two in the morning, long past either of our normal bedtimes, and yet that didn't dampen my resolve. Waking Roger up would probably be a terrible idea, and going to sleep instead would leave me in a much better position for my lunch time shift at the restaurant tomorrow. Even so, I swept into the bedroom determined to put all the misery of my meeting with Sam behind me.

It took me a moment to fully recognise the emptiness of the bed. My poor attempts at hospital corners belied the fact it hadn't been slept in at all that evening. I glanced at my watch, wondering if I'd gained hours somewhere. The minute hand crept ever closer to twelve o'clock. Roger should have been home for hours.

I tried to ignore the twisting fear in my stomach as I checked the answer machine, a piece of technology that had in no way earned its keep since its installation three years ago. As usual, it was empty, and my insides fluttered anxiously.

It took less than five minutes for those flutterings to become full-scale churns. My imagination went into overdrive as I huddled up on the sofa underneath a blanket, my skin suddenly breaking out into goosebumps despite the summery weather which was just beginning to break through the clouds. Telling myself that Roger did this sometimes wasn't any comfort. The Roger of New York City did this; my Roger didn't.

Where was he?


	50. Chapter 50

**Here's Roger...**

* * *

><p>The front door swung open carelessly, hitting the wall with a clatter which made me wince, but which Roger seemed completely oblivious to. He sauntered in as though it were three in the afternoon, dropping his keys onto the coffee table and turning towards the bedroom.<p>

All without even noticing me on the sofa.

'Where have you been?'

He visibly tensed and let out a sharp gasp before turning towards me. 'Cat? What are you doing up? And in the dark!' He flicked on a light switch, revealing the amusement which was now dancing across his face. I'd have loved seeing it there ordinarily; it was the most relaxed he'd looked in weeks. 'You scared me half to death!'

'Where have you been?' I repeated, unable to let go of the anxiety and tension that had plagued me since I'd walked in the flat myself over an hour ago. 'It's gone three.'

His brow furrowed ever so slightly, but his smile stayed fixed in place. 'There was this thing at the bar, a few of us stayed back. Is it really that late?'

'A thing?' The furrow deepened and I hated it, but not much more than I momentarily hated his cavalier attitude. Anger and upset and sheer exhaustion filled my words with more venom than they perhaps required. 'I've been sitting here all night imagining God knows what and you've been at a _thing_?'

'Cat?' There was, finally, a sign that Roger was actually picking up on my mood. 'What's wrong?'

'It's three in the morning, Roger!'

'I'm always late. You know I am.'

'Not this late.' I struggled to try and keep a lid on my anger, tracing the stitching on the sofa arm, my jaw jutting out stubbornly. 'You could have called.'

'You're usually asleep. I didn't want to wake you up.'

It was a reasonable answer; I wouldn't have thanked him if he had called and woken me up on an ordinary night. Perhaps my anger was misplaced. I wondered whether, if my evening had gone differently, I'd be taking it all out on Roger quite like this. Maybe if the party hadn't been Sam's or hadn't been for his engagement, or if he'd even acknowledged me, this argument wouldn't be happening. It was almost enough to stop me in my tracks and step into Roger's arms for the hug I'd been craving for what felt like weeks now.

'That's not the point.'

It was like Roger had suddenly realised what this was. Sulking wasn't something I tended to do; he did enough for both of us most of the time. But I had a feeling that both Mimi and April had been a bit better at it than I was. This was something he understood, a habit he'd been fighting so hard to break free of, that I'd been helping him with. And now I was forcing him back into his old world, filled with sniping and resentment and isolation. If I'd been thinking rationally, I'd have stopped. This was cruel.

Yet still I watched as the easy light in Roger's eyes vanished followed by his own pointed question. 'What are you doing up anyway?'

'I had to work late.'

'Oh, and did you _call me_?' His voice dripped with sarcasm as he mocked my accent. I loved it when he did that usually, the teasing way his mouth curled around my prep school vowels. There was no humour in this though, and I knew he was doing it purely to annoy. It was so unlike him.

'I told you about it this morning.'

'You mean in the thirty seconds we actually spent together?' So he had noticed. Surprise momentarily silenced me as I realised I wasn't the only one.

'Well… whose fault is that?' My tongue regained control and ran away whilst my brain struggled to keep up. It was like I was slamming my foot down on the brakes and nothing was happening. This wasn't where I'd seen this going. 'You're the one working all hours and then staying afterwards for a _thing_!'

'And why am I working all hours? Why can't we live off the savings we have? Oh, yeah!' It was the first time he'd ever alluded to that money. It felt as though he'd saved it up for just such an occasion and was going to enjoy every second of it.

'Don't you dare blame my parents for this!' I interrupted him, a family loyalty that I hadn't really been aware of rising up within me. 'You offered them that money, off your own back!'

'Well maybe now I'm wishing I hadn't bothered.'

'Oh for God's sake!' I flung the blanket in the floor, physical action the only way I could stem the fear which was burning its way around my veins. 'I'll ask for the money back if you want. Why don't I call them now?'

'Oh don't be so ridiculous.' He cast his eyes up to the ceiling and his voice was almost pleading when he said, 'It's way too late for this, Cat.' The panic within me spiked as I wondered whether he was talking about more than the hour.

My mind was set on course though, stubbornly refusing to back down. 'So you do agree it's late then?'

'I never said it wasn't!' His temper exploded before he tried to contain it again, trying to be the Roger I'd fallen in love with, even if it was through gritted teeth. 'Cat, come on, please. I don't know about you, but I'm tired.' He looked it as well. I'd spent so much time avoiding my own face recently that I'd not taken the time to look at his. God, he looked exhausted. And gorgeous.

Why couldn't my mouth realise that? 'That'll be staying behind after work for a _thing_, instead of actually, you know, coming home to your girlfriend. Obviously having far too much of a good time without her.'

'Well it's hardly surprising when this is my welcome home, is it?'

'It's all about you, isn't it? All about you and how you're feeling!' I jabbed my finger towards him. 'Am I supposed to be here waiting for you to pick back up again when you feel like it? When you've finished having a good time? And whilst we're on the subject…' An ugly thought came into my mind, one driven by the misery I'd endured all evening without Roger beside me. I had no idea where it had come from, where it had been hiding all these months, yet now it was there, large and dark and monstrous. 'How much of a good time was it?'

'What?' For a moment, confusion overtook everything else on his face. Then the same thought must have entered his mind, and his eyes widened in horror and disbelief. 'Cat… Cat, don't!'

But it was too late. I'd already taken a step forward, grabbing his arm roughly and wrenching his jumper sleeve up to reveal the delicate skin on the inside of his elbow. Those faint ghost-like scars of his previous life were still there – but nothing new.

Except the feeling of shame which settled over me instantly.

Before Roger had even pulled his arm away, my anger had dissipated, tears springing to my eyes in sheer disgust at what I'd just done. Any hatred I'd felt for his actions this evening were completely outweighed by the hatred I now felt for myself. Suddenly I wanted to climb outside of my own skin because no amount of washing felt like it would ever make me feel any better.

'Happy now?' He tugged his sleeves back down, his entire body recoiling away from me as the hurt and betrayal registered in his face and voice.

'I…' Words failed me and I shook my head, the reality of what I'd done fully hitting home as I stared at those beautiful eyes which were looking at me without any warmth whatsoever. 'I…'

'You really think I'd do that? After everything? You really think I'd go there again?' The questions came too quickly for me to answer properly and so I simply shook my head, my mouth hanging open uselessly. Nothing I could say would make this any better, and yet my silence wasn't helping either. 'Is that what this is all about? You thought I was…?' I'd never seen him angry like this before, so quiet and distant, removing himself completely from me. I could almost see the shutters coming down, and I hated myself all over again. 'Are you ever going to get over that, Cat? Am I ever going to be able to make you forget all of that?'

'I have, I…' I managed to force the words out finally.

'Yeah, really looks like it.' He stood a few feet away from me, almost close enough to touch. Maybe if I did, this awful night would be over, but as I took a step closer towards him, he took a step back, his hands flying up as if to even brush against me would be too much. With another step backwards, he turned towards the door.

'Where… where are you going?' Fear forced the words past my choked throat. Roger always ran away from conflict and problems, I knew that. I just thought he'd stopped running from me.

'I don't know.' The door slammed firmly shut behind him before I could catch it. I was left, alone in the apartment, with only the lingering scent of his cigarettes, a sign of the good time he'd had before he'd come home to me.


	51. Chapter 51

**This is a bit on the long side and I could have cheated and split it in half. It worked so well as one chapter though. It is likely pretty badly written - apologies! I'm finding Roger's character development quite hard to cope with - angsty Roger is so much easier!**

* * *

><p>Somehow I slept, curled up by myself on the sofa underneath the blanket. I woke with a sick feeling in my stomach which didn't leave me all day. I knew without checking that I remained alone in the apartment, and yet I still tortured myself with the sight of the un-slept in bed. It was one less chore to complete in the flat, and perhaps the me of yesterday would have appreciated that, but now it was different. The bedroom floor remained clear of Roger's usual debris, the kitchen sink all but sparkled without its layer of pots and pans. I was able to vacuum without having to pick up a dozen items which were far from in their place. It didn't matter. I completed the chores half-heartedly, listlessly, because now there seemed little point. I hadn't been aware but I'd been doing all of this for Roger; I'd been building a home. If he wasn't here, it didn't matter how tidy the flat was.<p>

As I sat brooding over the cup of coffee I made and then left untouched, I tried to think rationally and positively. Roger did this, had always done it. No doubt Mark had lost count of the number of times he'd watched his best friend storm out in a fit of temper only to return again of his own accord within days if not hours. If I phoned him now, he'd likely tell me as much. And then I'd realise that Mark would never have done what I did, that I could never share it with anyone, least of all him. I'd betrayed Roger completely, and I couldn't see how I'd ever forgive myself; there was no reason to suspect that Roger could do more.

I dressed for work slowly in the early afternoon, my ear keenly tuned to listen for the first sound of his return. All morning I rehearsed what I'd do or say if Roger returned. _When_ _Roger returns_, I tried to convince myself, unable or unwilling to believe that I wouldn't see him again, and soon. The one thing which kept me from breaking down completely was the presence of his guitar. Somehow, I knew he'd never leave that behind. So long as it remained in the apartment, Roger would come back.

A fresh feeling of shame swept over me as I set foot in the restaurant that afternoon. It was almost welcome, as it momentarily pushed away the thought of last night's real crime. A few sniggers and pointed comments from my colleagues were practically refreshing. Ultimately, however, it didn't make me feel much better. Dropping a tray full of glasses was small fry in comparison to accusing your boyfriend of resuming his heroin addiction, and it was the latter which continued to trouble me as the shift wore on.

Half of me tried to blame it all upon Sam and his wretched party. It was true that without that, I'd have returned home with fewer emotions coursing through my body and maybe my concern over where he'd been would have manifested itself as just that: concern, not the hideous petty anger which had taken me over the previous evening. Blaming Sam would have made it all much easier to bear. Yet it would also have been the coward's way out. It wasn't Sam's fault. Indeed, the attempts to point the finger at him only made me feel worse over how I'd behaved last night. My tears over how Sam had treated me still felt wrong. I might have told Meg that I'd made the right choice, but it was only now, with that choice having somehow slipped out of my grasp a little, that I realised just how much I'd meant it. Sam didn't belong in this situation at all. Even suggesting he did was yet another betrayal of Roger, and the thought of that forced me to escape from the restaurant and give over to the nausea which had been plaguing me all morning.

'Y'alright?'

Stepping out of the toilet cubicle and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I jumped as I came face to face with Meg. Her extreme perkiness almost made me vomit again from sheer misery, but I fought against it and gave her a wobbly smile.

'Fine.'

'Didn't sound much like it.' She raised her eyebrows pointedly. There was a pause before she said, without much of a blush to support her words, 'Look, I hate to ask, but Karl wants to know if you're pregnant.'

'What?' My manners failed me, collapsing under my unhappiness and surprise at her words. 'Why would he ask that?'

'Overemotional… puking…' Meg counted the symptoms out on her fingers. 'I don't know, he's a bloke. But are you?'

'No! No.' I shook my head.

'Right.' Meg gave a small nod. Then, as if it had only just occurred to her to ask, 'Do you want me to get you anything? A glass of water or anything?' I shook my head again. 'Is this still about the ex? Oh, don't get upset again!'

I blinked away the tears if only to avoid embarrassing myself in front of this girl who seemed so much more suited to life in general than I was. Eventually I managed to speak with the minimum of a quiver in my voice. 'It's sort of the opposite of that.'

'Oh. The better choice?' Meg sounded marginally more interested. I simply nodded, wondering if Roger knew he was more than that, that he was the best choice I'd ever made. I hadn't told him it very much lately. I fought against fresh tears.

Now Meg considered me. 'Look, you better get your stuff and go home. You've been sick,' she reminded me before I could protest. 'You can't be around food. I'll speak to Karl.'

'Thank you,' I mumbled. 'I'll… make it up to you… both of you.'

She ignored me; I was to learn in the future that she was the sort of person who liked to go unthanked. She would always remind me of Collins in that respect.

'Go home. Go to sleep. Eat something. And… talk to him. The better choice, I mean.' She gave me a small smile, devoid of any of the cynicism or irony I'd seen on her face before. 'You know where to find me if you want me. I swear I've spent more time here than in my own place recently! Take care.' With that, she swept back out of the toilets leaving me ever so slightly more positive.

* * *

><p>Whilst the nausea remained on my Tube ride home, thankfully I wasn't sick again. Now I'd stopped fighting it, I was struck by how very tired I was. Meg's advice was good advice, but even my exhaustion wasn't making that empty lonely apartment seem any more appealing. I clung on to the tiny piece of hope left inside me that Roger's anger had worn off and he'd come home. Meg was right again: we needed to talk.<p>

He was the first thing I saw as I walked around the corner into our road. The burst of June sunshine lit up his hair and his beloved leather jacket seemed incongruous. Still, my nausea abated for a second as I simply took in him.

The second thing I saw was his guitar, slung over his back as he walked away from me.

I hadn't known I had the energy until I needed to use it. My weariness vanished as my body forced itself to move faster, to catch Roger before he disappeared from view. Panic fuelled me as I broke into a jog and then a run, narrowly avoiding colliding with a man walking ahead of me. He swore at me and gave me justification to feel alright about abandoning my manners for the second time that day; apologising simply took up too much time.

Yet even with my lack of etiquette, it seemed as though I wasn't getting any closer to him. It was with a last ditch desperation that I finally shouted, 'Roger!' For a moment I thought he hadn't heard and I clutched my side as tears blurred my eyes and my feet stumbled on. He was leaving, really leaving.

And then he stopped and turned. His eyes searched my face for an explanation as I continued running towards him. When he could find none, he said tentatively, 'Cat?'

I didn't trust myself to speak until I'd got my hands firmly placed on his shoulders, my body heaving as I gasped for breath and gave way to the sobs that had been threatening to break through all day. It was all I could do to stutter out, 'Don't… don't leave. I'm… so- sorry.'

His eyes darted over my face again and it was only now that I realised how different they were today; they were filled with concern and warmth, albeit tempered with confusion. Even so, I rambled on, my breathing slowing just by being so close to him, where I'd wanted to be for such a long time now.

'I was an idiot and a bitch and I know you probably hate me, I hate myself, but I love you, so please please don't leave me.'

The frown deepened and he placed his hands on my arms, a deep calming warmth spreading through them. I'd only just realised I was trembling, and yet underneath his hands my muscles calmed. I remembered how he'd done the same to Delilah all those months ago in Red Hook, and how the horse had instantly stilled. There was a quietness to him now, so different from the fury of last night. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I wondered how I could ever have thrown that all back at him.

'Please,' I whispered again.

'Cat,' he said, his voice calmer than I'd ever heard him speak before. 'I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm not… I'm not _leaving_ you.'

'But… but what about… the guitar and…'

'What? Cat, you're not making sense.' He brushed a sweaty tendril of hair away from my face. 'What about my guitar?'

'I thought… I thought you'd come back for it…'

A small smile creased his lips as he bent down to rest his forehead against mine. 'You really think I'd come back for that and leave you?'

'I just thought… after last night…'

His jaw tensed at the mention of the previous evening and a flash of something cooler spread across his face, but his hold on my arms stayed as it was. He did, however, straighten up again and regarded me from a greater distance. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth, wondering what he'd say next.

What he said wasn't what I would ever have expected from Roger Davis.

'Come on, let's go home. We need to talk.'

* * *

><p>The apartment was as spotless as I'd left it that morning, except for the pile of clothes Roger had abandoned during his short stay there this afternoon. These had at least migrated from the bedroom to the washing machine, although were still in a tangled heap on the worktop. Suddenly I needed to keep my hands busy and I set to sorting them out, separating colours and whites as if my life depended upon it. The whole time I could feel Roger's eyes on me, silently waiting for the conversation he wanted to begin. It took me far longer than it should have done to complete the task. Finally I turned to look at him, embarrassed and uncertain.<p>

'Done?'

I nodded, a little reluctantly.

'Good.' He leaned against the worktop, his short sleeved t-shirt exposing the skin on his arms. Just as he seemed about to speak, I felt the words spilling out of me.

'About last night, Roger, I'm so sorry-'

'Yeah, you've already said that,' he interrupted me.

'But I just…'

'Cat!' I started as his voice returned to the irritation and anger of the previous evening. He must have realised and pulled a face before trying again. 'Cat. Please. Just… let me get it out, okay?'

Wordlessly, I nodded.

'What you said last night. About…' he exhaled heavily, before managing to get the words out. 'About… my addiction. Is that really what you thought?'

'No!'

'So why mention it?' Before I could answer, he carried on. This had clearly weighed upon him as heavily as it had on me; probably more so if I knew Roger. 'The thing is, Cat… I'm always going to be an addict. I'm always going to want to… _use_. I'm always going to struggle with it. Maybe not all the time. But some of the time. And if you don't get that-'

'I do!'

'Then why bring it up?' He shrugged a little hopelessly. 'If you didn't really think I was… why mention it?'

It was a strange thing about Roger which I had only just begun to realise. Beyond a few half-hearted snipes about Sam or my family's wealth, I'd never seen him be truly nasty. He could be careless and thoughtless and even on occasions utterly heartless. But he was never malicious. It was no wonder he was finding it so hard to understand why I'd lashed out with the most explosive ammunition I had. The realisation only made me feel worse.

Yet here he was, trying to act against his instincts, to sit down and talk about the things which terrified him. If he could try, perhaps I could too. The least I owed him was some honesty.

'I don't know.' It was honest but pretty pathetic, and it didn't get rid of Roger's puzzled face. I tried again. 'I don't know where it came from. I suppose… I suppose I was upset and angry. I'd had a really bad day at work.'

'So you took it out on me?'

'I… guess.' I shrugged and then added hastily, 'I hadn't even thought of it before I said it. Or at all. I was just… worried about you and…' The real answer came to me before I could censor it. 'I've been really unhappy.'

'I know.'

I looked him in the eye properly for the first time since we'd set foot in the apartment. Those ever present tears sprang up again. 'You do?'

'Of course I do. You really think I haven't noticed? Why do you think I've been working such long hours? For you. So we could go and see Mark and Stacey, spend longer there, maybe even have a goddamned holiday for once. I've hated seeing you like this, Cat.'

He'd noticed. All these weeks I'd been spiralling downwards, tired and fed-up with everything and everyone: he'd noticed. Ashamed, I fiddled with the ends of my hair, split far beyond what my parents or sister would ever consider acceptable. In a small voice, I said, 'I've been such a bitch.'

'Yeah, you have.' Roger nodded, but a lazy smile crept across his face now, lighting up even the dark shadows underneath his eyes. Coming towards me, he put his hands on my arms again, a simple gesture which gave me some hope. 'A complete and utter bitch.' With his last words, he pulled me into him and I breathed it that so familiar smell again. I hadn't noticed how much like home it had always felt until now.

'I'm sorry,' I mumbled into his t-shirt.

'I know. Me too.' He kissed my hair, tightening his hold on me. 'God, I've missed you.'

We stayed like that for several minutes, a silent reconciliation, as I sniffed into his shoulder and he tried to gather as much of me to him as possible. This was so much more than I'd hoped for when I left work earlier that I clung to it ever harder. It was too real a thought that it could all end.

At length, Roger said, softly, 'Much as I'm enjoying this, I can't stay here all afternoon.'

I lifted my head off of his shoulder and frowned. 'I thought you had this evening off?'

'I do. Sort of.' His gaze slid away from mine and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. 'I've… I've sort of got a gig.'

'What? Since when?'

'Last night.'

'Why didn't you say?' He raised his eyebrows, and I gave a small shame-faced smile.

'Anyway,' he said after a pause, 'it's just a small thing. There's a free slot at the bar and it came up in conversation that I had a guitar and the boss asked me to fill the gap. Nothing special.'

But it was, and it explained the light which had radiated from him before I'd shot him down last night. Trying to put my guilt aside, I squeezed his shoulders. 'That's brilliant. I'm… really proud of you.'

'Yeah, yeah.' He looked away awkwardly, still unable to accept praise. Then a fresh idea dawned on him and his face lit up again. 'Why don't you come?'

'To the bar?'

'We can talk again later. Just… come tonight.'

There were a thousand reasons to say no: I was exhausted, I'd never really liked rock music, I hated sitting by myself in bars. But just one reason to say yes: Roger. He'd always win over any of the rest.

* * *

><p>That still didn't stop me feeling awkward as I sat nursing a warm glass of white wine that evening. Much as I was looking forward to his performance this evening, I was looking forward to going home with him more. Suddenly I wanted to tell him everything, to share every little thought and feeling I'd had in what felt like the endless weeks since things had started going wrong between us. I wanted to get us back on track.<p>

I'd arrived at the bar half an hour before Roger's set was due to begin. It was the sort of bar that Roger would feel at home in and I was reminded of the Life Café. I'd always thought I liked it there, but now I realised I liked being there with Roger. Without him I felt exposed and a little uncomfortable, not to mention entirely inappropriately dressed. My short summer dress was somewhat at odds with the casual denim and t-shirts all around me. The predominantly male clientele turned to look at me as soon as I walked in, and I wished I'd stayed in the leggings and shirt I'd worn to lounge around the flat all afternoon. It had been a last minute decision to slip into something more feminine and I was regretting it already. Even the few women in the bar were favouring a more laid-back style of dress. I hoped I hadn't made yet another massive mistake.

Roger was nowhere in sight and I resisted the urge to hide away in a corner. Forcing my way to the front of large crowd at the bar, I was immediately acknowledged by a member of staff.

'Be with you in one second,' he said, as he added a fourth pint of beer to the stash on the bar. 'Seven pound sixty.' Handing the change to his previous customer, he ignored the other customers around me and instead leaned on the bar, a not-unwelcoming smile on his face. 'You must be Cat. White wine, isn't it?'

I blinked in surprise even as he pulled a bottle from the fridge and poured a glass. 'How… how did you know?'

'Classy girl, classy dress. Not hard to spot.' He gave me a wink which went almost too perfectly with his Irish brogue. He offered his hand to shake as he placed my wine in front of me. 'I'm Declan. Your man Roger asked me to keep an eye out for you.'

A small part of me was embarrassed that Roger had suggested I needed looking after. Most of me was touched he'd thought that much about me. I took a sip of wine and the face I pulled afterwards was entirely involuntary.

Declan gave a hearty laugh. 'Sorry, was the best I could do at short notice. We're not usually a wine crowd, y'see. It is on the house though,' he added as I fumbled for my purse.

'Oh no, it's…'

'To be specific, it's on Roger,' he clarified. 'Though I wouldn't be thinking you'd want the second glass now, would you? One second.'

With that, he ducked away to serve another customer, leaving me stood alone at the bar, taking up space. I vaguely drifted away from the main hub of noise and action and to a quieter end of the bar where empties had been stacked up. It wasn't the most salubrious of settings, but I was at least out of the way. Somehow, without anything else to occupy my attention, I drank the rest of the too-sweet wine.

'I take it back, maybe you will be wanting that second glass.' Declan reappeared to collect the empty glasses, scooping mine up with the rest. 'Or have we convinced you to drink something a little more exciting?'

I smiled. 'It probably gets better with the second glass, right?'

'I'm not a wine man, meself.' He shrugged. 'Is that a yes?'

I nodded my agreement and he returned almost before I could blink with my fresh glass. He raised his eyebrows as I took an experimental sip.

'Well?'

'It doesn't get better.' I laughed.

'Always worth a try.' Declan reached for a cloth and wiped the bar down. It was something I would always find amazing about this cheerful amiable Irishman: his complete inability to do nothing. He was constantly alert and aware of everything around him. He lived very much in the moment and in the world, and if he ever dwelled much on anything, it wasn't noticeable to anyone observing him. It was a quality I liked very much.

'So tell me,' he said now, polishing several glasses which had just arrived newly washed from the back room. 'Is your man any good?'

'I don't know.'

'Ah come on. You must have an opinion. Don't worry, I won't tell on you.' He winked again.

'I'm serious! I don't know. Roger hasn't played much recently.' Or ever, but I wasn't sure how much Declan or any of Roger's work colleagues knew about Roger or our relationship. Somehow I doubted that he had admitted to his minor music success in any of his conversations about this evening's gig; Roger was sometimes too modest for his own good. 'Our friends say he's good though.'

'He's got a good audience anyway.' Declan gestured around the bar. 'This lot, they like any excuse to sing or dance on a Saturday night. He's in safe hands.'

It was uncanny; Declan had said exactly what I needed to hear.

Just then, the background music cut out and a screech of feedback was met with cheerful shouts from the bar.

'He always does that.' Declan rolled his eyes and ducked back down to the other end of the bar, heading towards the small stage area where a man was tapping the microphone somewhat suspiciously. Niall O'Hanlon, Roger would later tell me, was a great businessman and a pretty good boss, but technology was beyond him: 'He thinks he has to speak louder when he calls Ireland.'

Now, Niall waved his hand at the crowd who quietened down with amused smiles.

'Special treat for you tonight, kids, one of our own. Roger Davis.' The cheer was partially drink fuelled, but I liked to think it was at least partly due to Roger's popularity at the bar. Declan certainly added to the general noise with a few well-placed whistles.

'Now Roger hasn't played for an audience in a while, but I know you good folk will treat him kindly. Roger… you're on!'

Roger's familiar face broke through the crowd and onto the stage, accompanied by a man with a bass guitar and two who took up their places behind the drum kit and keyboard already on stage. Niall gave him a brief handshake and clap on the shoulder before leaving the stage. For a moment, as he gazed out across the surprisingly large crowd, I saw some of Roger's resolve waver. This was the kind of event he hadn't done clean in years, always finding something to take the edge off of any nerves he might have. When I thought about it, it was no wonder he'd avoided performing for so many years: so many memories were tied up with his music, both good and bad. It was probably enough to put anybody off.

And then he locked his gaze with mine, and I was pleased I'd dressed up for the occasion. It was time to start making some new memories. Without any further hesitation, he broke into the first number of the night.

He was good. On stage, some of the confidence which had been slowly creeping into his every move and word was magnified ten-fold. He rattled through a range of hits, mostly covers of his beloved idols Springsteen and Bon Jovi, but with a smattering of U2 and bands I couldn't even try to name. They were all, without exception, upbeat and definite crowd pleasers as everybody around me joined in on the choruses and most of the verses. Roger played the guitar easily, barely glancing down, his fingers finding every chord without a problem. And his voice. The recording I'd heard hadn't prepared me for the sheer raw power of his voice live. He was very good. And I realised I'd always known he would be. Here was the man Collins had told me about last Christmas. I wished he was here to see it.

It was intended to be an hour's set as a warm-up for the main band of the evening. With fifteen minutes to go, the band changed pace and broke into the chords I recognised as belonging to 'Your Eyes'. I hadn't been sure whether he'd play it or not, but I was pleased he had; it seemed appropriate at his comeback gig. When the song finished, the guitars fell silent for the first time since their arrival on the stage. The crowd applauded generously and Roger's face, till then so composed and focused upon the music, cracked into a broad smile before he looked down at the ground, his familiar discomfort with praise rising to the surface again.

'Thanks. Thanks very much.' He straightened the microphone unnecessarily. 'Thanks.' As the applause died down, he said, 'I wrote that song five years ago for the woman I loved.' Whistles and cat-calls brought the embarrassed smile to his face again, but he overcame it with a broader grin. 'Yeah, but that's the trouble you see. When your girlfriend finds the song you wrote for another woman, she starts to ask questions.' Laughter, and Roger seemed to get into it, even as Declan shot me an amused look. 'So I've been trying a lot over the last year to try and come up with something for my girlfriend. Things… things don't always work out the way you want. I've tried to put it all together. And I've failed.' A groan of disappointment, but instead of looking deflated by the admission of his own shortcomings, Roger lifted his head and met my eye again, flashing me a grin. 'But I've found a song which says it better than I possibly could. So much as this pains me…' He tailed off and nodded at the keyboard player who broke into a calypso-esque melody so at odds with their previous output that it took a second for everybody to adjust. When they did, there were several groans and rolled eyes, but equally as many laughs. For my part, I was concentrated solely on the words that came out of Roger's mouth.

'Can I tell you what you mean to me? You're essential as the air I breathe. Almost impossible to believe that you're mine. You're like weekends all year long under a hot Jamaican sun. You are the winner at a hundred to one. Yes, you are. The something you've got is something I need right now. You don't have to prove it no more, I'm down on my bended knees, honey.' An awkwardly keyboard scale brought a semi-disgusted look to his face, which broke into a grin as he reached the chorus. 'What am I gonna do? I'm so in love with you. What am I gonna say if ever you go away? One in a million, oh so rare. A nightingale in Berkley Square. And baby, I ain't going nowhere without you. You are the goal that wins the game. The very last bus home in the rain. You're like rock and roll and champagne all in one. The something you've got is something I need right now. Let's not mess around anymore, I'm down on my bended knees, honey.'

As he began the chorus for the second time, I found myself tapping along to the slightly infectious beat on the bar top. It was a song I only vaguely recognised and was certainly offending Roger's very specific music tastes. It was, however, more than slightly catchy.

'I'll be a sleek one of a kind and so difficult to define. I could drink a case of you anytime. The Sistine Chapel, the Eiffel Tower. A national anthem, an April shower. Tomorrow's fashion and now I've found you, I'm complete. The something you've got is something I need right now. You don't need to prove it no more, I'm down on my bended knees, honey…'

The crowd joined in on the chorus, even the ones acting as though this song was entirely beneath them. By the time Roger reached the last verse, the general atmosphere was as high as it had been before 'Your Eyes.'

'Individually quite unique. You've really swept me off my feet. And baby, you look oh so neat, with nothing on…' Roger tailed off, meeting my eyes and grinning broadly at what I knew was a look of sheer horror at his final words. A smattering of laughter accompanied the less-than-poetic lyrics, but before there could be much of a reaction, the band launched into their final song of the evening, a real anthem which seemed to last forever. It was only Niall's appearance on the stage which called an end to proceedings, to rapturous applause. It was difficult to see how the main act of the evening would compete. Roger gestured vaguely towards the back of the pub and vanished.

'So,' Declan remarked as he came down to my end of the bar to pour a whisky. 'What's the verdict?'

'He's amazing!' The words spilled out of my mouth without any chance of my controlling them. There was an electricity in the air which had infected me. 'I don't even like rock music and that was… incredible.'

Declan grinned. 'Passed with flying colours, I'll tell him you're still his biggest fan. But seriously,' he added, 'he was good. Did he really write that song?'

I nodded eagerly. 'It's been on a few film soundtracks.'

'And your fella's still working here? Man, things ain't what they used to be! One second.' He bustled away to serve his customer before returning to replace the whisky optic. 'Pleased with your song? My mum's a big Rod Stewart fan, she'd kill to have someone sing that to her.'

'I loved it.'

'Even the last line?' His eyes twinkled mischievously.

'_Especially_ the last line,' I laughed.

'It was the most truthful line.' I whipped around to find Roger behind me, his smile as teasing as Declan's. His white vest was drenched in sweat and his hair hung in clumps. It wasn't the most attractive sight I'd ever seen. But his hands were on my arms and his eyes were on mine. Heat spread through my body instantly.

I took both him and me by surprise when I wrapped my arms around his neck without another word and kissed him, violently and deeply, right in the middle of the bar. The crowd, restless without their entertainment, rose to cheering and whistling again, and it was only when the giggles rose up within me that I broke away, albeit reluctantly.

'Wow,' Roger whispered, holding me close. 'What was that for?'

'For you.' I fiddled with his vest. 'Where've you been?'

'Cleaning up. Performing's sweaty work.'

I traced the outline of sweat on his vest. 'Good job.'

'Sorry.'

'I like it.'

A blush spread across Roger's face and I was suddenly aware of where we were and just how out of character I was behaving. I dropped my eyes, just as Roger turned to Declan. He didn't, however, loosen his grip around my waist.

'Has Declan been looking after you?' Roger directed the question at his work colleague.

'Like I look after my own grandma.' Declan winked.

'Why does that worry me?' Roger grinned.

'Great show fella. Can I get you a drink?'

There was a pause, in which Roger and I looked at each other, and his hold on me became ever tighter.

'Or,' Declan continued, a wry smile on his face, 'Are you two heading straight off?'

'Straight off.' We spoke as one and exchanged sheepish grins.

Declan rolled his eyes good-naturedly, even as we waved him goodbye and headed out of the door. 'Have a good night. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.'

* * *

><p>Roger's heart rate slowed to the familiar and comforting beat I recognised. I blew a stray strand of hair out of my face and lifted my head.<p>

'So, do you think Declan would do this?'

Roger raised his eyebrows sardonically. 'You better not be thinking about Declan right now.'

I giggled and snuggled back down next to Roger, who tightened his hold on me. It was the most relaxed and happy I'd felt for weeks. The next day stretched ahead of us, a rare day off together, yet I felt no need to organise anything for us to do. This was good enough. This was perfect.

'I've missed you.' Roger spoke softly into my hair.

'I've not been anywhere,' I replied, lifting my head again to look at him.

'I know. But I've missed this. And your smile. And your laugh.' He twisted a strand of my hair around his finger. 'I've missed everything about you.'

'Me too. And I'm sorry-'

Roger forced me to stop talking by placing his mouth over mine. When he pulled away, I was slightly breathless. 'Have you stopped apologising now?'

'Not if you keep silencing me like that,' I teased.

Roger smiled and resumed playing with my hair. I propped my head up on an elbow and closed my eyes. It was a long time before he spoke again.

'Things have been pretty shit, haven't they?'

I opened my eyes and studied his face, wondering if this was another moment when he'd need shoring up against the world. Then I realised that it hadn't been like that much recently. I thought back over the last few months, right back to Amelia's birthday, and realised that Roger's constant need to be reassured and protected had gone. Today's gig had only proved that. Instead, it had been him wrapping himself around me like a blanket, trying to shield me from anything anybody could throw at me. He was even forgiving me for crimes that fully deserved to be punished. The role reversal was unsettling: I hadn't been aware I needed looking after like this.

Now, with his statement still hanging in the air, that look of concern was on his face again. It wasn't that it was something so unfamiliar; I'd seen it so many times before. What was disturbing was that it had always been on Mark's face before.

'It's not been your fault,' I said now.

'I know.' Such certainty, so unlike the Roger I'd first met a year ago. 'It's going to get better though.'

'I know.'

'Good.' His face broke into a smile again, momentarily erasing the worry lines which were so unlike him. Brushing my hair back off of my face, he added, 'I love you.'

I gave a small grin. 'I know. I love you too.'

Goofy smiles exchanged, I lay my head back down on his chest and there was such a long pause that I assumed Roger had gone to sleep. I was on the verge of dozing off myself, happy and satisfied for the first time in a long time.

'So what was so bad at work yesterday?'

'What?' I jerked awake again.

'You said you'd had a bad day work. I know you're hardly a massive fan of the place on a good day, so what was so bad about yesterday?'

'Oh… nothing really…'

'Cat.' I reluctantly looked him in the eye. 'You totally flipped out last night. So explain why.'

There was another long pause as we stared each other down. I'd thought I was being let off easily for my outburst last night, knowing that Roger was hardly familiar with having the moral high ground. This was his form of punishment: forcing me to tell the truth.

Finally, I admitted, 'Sam had his engagement party at the restaurant last night.'

'Sam? As in…'

'The actor-lord-fiance.' I nodded.

'I didn't know he was engaged.'

'Me either.'

'And _that's_ why yesterday was so bad?' He sounded sceptical and I knew why. It sounded as implausible tonight as it had when I'd tried explaining it to Meg yesterday. There seemed to be only one reason why I'd be feeling so low after seeing my ex with his new fiancé, and the truth couldn't be further away from that explanation.

'It's not that I'm jealous,' I said now, sounding almost too hasty to my own ears. 'Honestly, Roger, it's not that.'

'So what is it then?'

'It's… it's the way he looked at me. Like I was… nothing, no-one. When last year that was me on his arm. I'm not jealous, I'm…' I struggled to find the right word and gave up. 'It's just odd that he's moved on so quickly. What?' I frowned as Roger gave a small chuckle.

'Well. Moving on. It's hardly something you can criticise him for, is it?'

I had to concede his point. 'But even so. Getting _engaged_. It's another thing altogether.' I shook my head. 'It's alright though. I'm… alright with it. And I'm sorry.' I held my breath as I waited for his final verdict, dreading a repeat of the previous night.

Roger raised his eyebrows. 'Are you asking for me to make you stop again?'

Relief flooded through every inch of my body. 'Do I really have to ask?'

It turned out that I didn't.

* * *

><p><strong>Just FYI. This is what I imagine Roger's set list was at his gig, in this order. It's largely coloured by the fact I'm not a natural rock fan. These are, however, some of my favourite tracks; yes, even the Rod Stewart. I'm guessing Roger added several extended guitar solos to fill the entire hour.<strong>

Runaway by Bon Jovi watch?v=s86K-p089R8

Born in the USA by Bruce Springsteen watch?v=lZD4ezDbbu4

I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For by U2 watch?v=bJgXlwUb9GA

In These Arms by Bon Jovi watch?v=59NoqP02ZYM

Paradise City by Guns n Roses watch?v=Rbm6GXllBiw

Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen watch?v=IxuThNgl3YA

The Hardest Part is the Night by Bon Jovi watch?v=vHmoJ8UQJJU

Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen watch?v=129kuDCQtHs

Your Eyes by Roger Davis! (/Jonathan Larson) watch?v=yvfsWj_G8M

What Am I Gonna Do? by Rod Stewart watch?v=u77wMIRN8IM

Don't Stop Believing by Journey watch?v=rfUYuIVbFg0


	52. Chapter 52

That night changed a lot of things between Roger and me, mainly for the better. Without realising, I'd taken him somewhat for granted since we'd moved to London. It was as though having got him to England was enough and I'd not made much effort to keep him here lately. That brief moment on the street when I'd believed he was leaving me had changed things; suddenly, being with Roger was a privilege and I cherished it.

Roger's confidence only grew as June turned to July. Niall had been impressed enough by his performance to offer him a semi-regular slot alongside his bar-tending duties, and when a second and then a third bar got in contact, Roger finally got the message. The money wasn't amazing, but it was enough to mean that he could give up his job at the Italian restaurant. His gigs and rehearsals had a tendency to expand to fill the time vacated by the job, but he was at least getting a day off a week now, sometimes even the same one I got. It was a start.

It was a British July much like the one I'd left last year. Lying in bed a year to the day since meeting Mark, Collins, Maureen and Roger, I wondered if things could be any more different. I'd left England a whole other person from the one I was now, and I couldn't say that I wholly missed the girl who had thought running away would make things better. The last year had been messy and painful and hard. It was only now I was back here, lying in the bed I'd spent so many lonely nights in, that I finally acknowledged the truth: I was happy now, back where it had all started.

Rolling over, I looked at the still-sleeping reason for the changes, the person who had taught me without realising that running away never solved anything. He was the living embodiment of that lesson. Impulsively, a rush of gratitude flowing through me, I kissed him.

His eyes opened blearily and his mouth stretched into a wide smile.

'Morning,' I said.

'Happy anniversary,' he replied.

Anniversaries were something which came in abundance over the next few weeks, as Roger marked every tiny step along the journey that had brought us here. They were certainly more welcome celebrations for me than the predictable spa trip for my mother's birthday. If it hadn't been for Roger nagging me on an almost daily basis, I'd have accidentally-on-purpose forgotten to book the time off of work.

'I don't understand you,' I said one day after that day's prompt. 'My mother has never been exactly nice to you.'

'It's not me she wants to spend the day with.'

'It's not me either. She'd be perfectly happy with just Amelia.'

'Then I'll say it again: your mother is an idiot.'

'An idiot you want me to give up a day off for,' I pointed out.

'She's also your mother. She's important. Who was it who thought it was important for me to spend Christmas with my family?'

I rolled my eyes. 'I knew that would come back and haunt me one day.'

'Just book the day off.' He gave me a kiss on the cheek. 'I'll see you tonight.'

Mostly due to Roger's persistence, I found myself in a white towelling robe in mid-July, awaiting the first of several over-priced treatments. Glancing down the booklet we'd been handed on the way in, I was thankful that this was my dad's 'treat for the girls' and I didn't have to spend any of our precious New York fund on it. A recent check on our finances had shown that Roger's hard work had paid off and our flights to visit Mark, Stacey and their baby in November were bought and paid for. We'd both booked a fortnight off work, using up most of our holiday allowance, as he had grudgingly agreed to spend a few days upstate with his parents too. With that in mind, I felt I'd got off reasonably lightly by spending one day with my mother and sister.

I fell back on old survival instincts, hoping that by keeping quiet they would largely carry out their gossiping without dragging me into it. In its own way, it was quite calming. Knowing I was escaping home to Roger at the end of it was definitely helping with my relaxation. Names washed over me as my mother and Amelia shared the titbits they'd gathered from their relative social circles and it was only occasionally that I dipped back in when particular names caught my ear. Christina and Matthew's wedding had taken place the previous weekend ('Very rushed,' Amelia said in a stage-whisper. 'She looks more pregnant than I do.') and Olivia's parents had filed for an unforeseen divorce ('Irreconcilable differences,' my mother explained. 'She's not reconciled to his mistresses.') This was almost as good as watching television.

'Catherine?'

I dragged myself back into the present, having all but drifted off during their latest conversation about some poor girl I'd never even heard of. Whoever she was, they weren't that keen on her and had pulled her to pieces. I hadn't thought my attention was required.

'Sorry?'

My mother sighed. 'Amelia and I were wondering if you'd heard from Sam recently.'

I decided against explaining about the engagement party. 'No.'

'So you haven't been invited to the wedding?' Amelia put in.

'Oh, is he getting married?' I feigned ignorance and thought I made a pretty good job of it. 'Anybody I know?'

'Some actress.' My mother sounded quite horrified and I smothered a smile. 'His parents are devastated.' She wasn't, for once, being over-dramatic. Whilst Sam's parents had tolerated his career choice, even managing some level of interest as his profile began to rise, they had always seen it as something of a hobby rather than a serious job. Sam would one day inherit their family pile, and as scruffy and run-down as it was, for them it was enough of a living. That their beloved son was looking to share his inheritance with an _actress_ would have sent them into a spin.

What was surprising, though, was that Sam was considering it in the first place. He'd always played the game better than almost any of us, understanding his place in the world and what was expected of him. This was very much out of character.

The conversation halted as my mother was called for her massage. Amelia and I opted out, heading instead for pedicures; somehow I doubted anybody could quite match Roger's penchant for massages. To begin the conversation again seemed to be inviting trouble.

'What's she like?' Curiosity got the better of me. The glimpse I'd got of her at the engagement party had shown me almost nothing; I suspected she was blonde only based upon his previous tastes.

'She's on a soap opera.' Amelia explained. 'Blonde, thin. Nobody knows much about her family.' It was clear from those few words that she didn't think much of her, but her next words surprised me. 'Sam's really lowered his standards since you.' It was the nicest thing Amelia had said to me, until the next thing. 'You look really well.'

I was reminded of James' comments six weeks earlier. I'd put a little weight on though my clothes were still baggy in places. What had changed was that I felt so much better since then and I knew it showed.

'Thank you.' I smiled. 'You look lovely.' It was true, she did. My sister had always been stylish and elegant, her confidence allowing her to glide through life without a single stumble. Now, six months pregnant, she looked different, softer and gentler somehow. It was a complete cliché but she was glowing.

'I look disgusting,' she replied, in the first self-deprecating comment I'd ever heard her utter. 'I'm fat.'

'You're pregnant,' I pointed out. 'I think you're allowed to be fat. Not that you are!' She wasn't; with a quick glance, it would be possible to believe she'd simply had a large lunch. 'Are you excited?'

The smile and nod she gave me was so unlike the usually so reserved sister I knew that I gave a giggle. It was the nicest conversation we'd ever had. For the first time, I was so pleased I'd come here today and I silently promised Roger a very big thank you when I got home.

That neither my mother or Amelia mentioned my boyfriend for the entire day was a curse and a blessing. Their attempts to pretend he didn't exist were frustrating, but at least I didn't have to hear yet another lecture about how unsuitable he was. Coupled with how calm and pleasant Amelia's raised levels of progesterone were making her, it was a largely tolerable and, at times, nice day.

I was still glad to get home.

* * *

><p>To say the next few months passed uneventfully would be a lie. Roger's determination to commemorate every milestone in our relationship resulted in more dinners, presents and private performances of cheesy covers than I quite knew what to do with. It was, however, the most humble gift that struck a real chord with me. The card which simply stated 'I'm sorry' left on my pillow, a year to the day after he'd run out on me and left Mark to deal with his mess was the closing chapter on our inauspicious history.<p>

As the summer rolled away, Roger began writing songs again. It was strange how quickly I became accustomed to the sounds of his strumming around the apartment, as though it had always been there. It certainly seemed that Roger had always been meant to have a guitar in her hands. At first he was embarrassed, breaking off from whatever riff he'd been practising as soon as I entered the room. Then gradually he became more absorbed and at times I wondered if he'd even noticed my presence. Then he'd do something unexpected, slipping his hands over mine into the washing up, and I knew without a doubt that I had registered on his consciousness.

In early September, we made a more enthusiastic pilgrimage than usual to a family gathering as Amelia's baby was born. Naturally, she hit it lucky with a boy on the first attempt and Andrew's smugness would have been far too much to take if he hadn't seemed so completely oblivious to anything other than his wife and son. It was the first time I'd seen Amelia look less than perfect in more years than I cared to remember, and yet somehow it was the nicest I'd ever seen her look too. Privately, in a rare moment of sisterly confidence, she admitted that she was exhausted and it was all far harder than she'd ever imagined: 'But so so worth it.'

For my part, the highlight of the day was seeing Roger entrusted with baby David. His awkwardness around my family vanished as soon as the dozing bundle was placed into his arms. A smile I'd never seen before spread over his face and he murmured something unintelligible to the baby. I glanced at both my sister and my mother, both of whom seemed momentarily to have forgiven my boyfriend his trespasses. For an instant, I felt any tensions fade away and a deep warmth spread throughout my body.

Roger's eyes darted from David to me, and the warmth dissipated slightly. I didn't know why, but his glance shot an icy bolt through me. Unwilling to have that spoil the day completely, I tucked it away where I hoped I wouldn't have to think about it again and fought for a second chance to hold my nephew, finding his weight to be a great distraction from the things I'd rather not look at.

My father stopped us as we were on our way out of the door. His awkwardness rivalled only Roger's as the two men who had shaped my life so far faced each other.

'It's been… nice to see you,' my father began, mainly directing his words towards me. 'You look well.'

'Thank you.' I stifled a grin at the formality. 'So do you.'

There was a pause and my father nodded, seemingly at nothing. Then he turned to Roger only and thrust his hand forward. 'Here's the money you lent us. I've… added some interest…'

The abrupt nature of the payback took us both by surprise although Roger recovered more quickly than I could, taking the cheque. 'Thank you. I wasn't expecting it back so soon though. Are you sure?'

'Perfectly.' My father drew himself up to his full height, as though Roger had offended him in some way. Having to repay debts wasn't something he was used to and I knew the whole affair had dented his pride. I therefore forgave his immediate desire to be rid of the both of us for the day, as he turned back into the house with a 'I'll let you get going.'

It was only back at the apartment that I hesitantly broached the subject of the money. Seven months ago, it had seemed to be everything to us, the key to our future happiness. It was true that everything hadn't been plain sailing and that the extra money would have been more than helpful at times. Yet we'd made it through without it; we'd got here. I wasn't sure how we'd have spent the last few months if we'd had the money. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

So now, as Roger slung together a couple of sandwiches for our quick supper before we both headed out to work, I fiddled with the pot of kitchen utensils anxiously, unsure whether I should mention the money or not. Roger's pride was as vast and delicate as my father's: a reminder of how he'd acted so recklessly all those months ago could send him spiralling downwards.

'What is it?'

I jumped. 'What's what?'

'Whatever's making you make that row.' He nodded towards the utensil pot and raised his eyebrows, calling my bluff just like always.

I took a deep breath. 'Are you going to buy your song back?'

'What?' Roger jerked his head up from the sandwich and looked at me incredulously. 'No! What made you think that?'

'Well… now you've got the money…' I shrugged. 'I thought you might like it back. It's… important to you.'

There was a pause as he gave my words some thought. He played with the knife in his hand, poking at the sandwich he'd already made until it looked less than appetising. Then he said, 'It was important. But not now. It's… done. I'm not buying back the past.'

'So… what will you do?'

'Nothing. At least… not unless you want to.'

'Me?'

'It's our money.' Roger fixed me with a firm stare. 'I'm not spending it without your say so. I'm not known for hugely rational decisions, after all.'

'But you do have an idea what you want to do with it?'

'What _we_ could do with it.'

I rolled my eyes at the frustrating pronoun. 'Alright! So…?'

Roger put down the knife carefully and slipped his arms around my waist. 'It's up to you. Completely. If you don't want to, we won't.' Taking a deep breath, he continued in a rush, 'Niall's offered me the chance to buy into the bar. Me and Declan, actually. He mentioned it a few weeks ago and I said I'd think about it. I didn't expect your dad to pay me back so soon and I thought I'd have to tell him no. But now…'

It was news to me that Niall had offered Roger anything more than a more flexible shift pattern to fit in with his performing. Taken by surprise, my mouth gaped a little and I struggled to find the words to express how I felt. Just as I found them, Roger interrupted.

'If you hate it, I'll say no. You do, don't you? I'll tell him no. We can spend it on something else if you like, or, I don't know, _invest _it or something….'

'Roger.' I placed a finger on his lips to silence him and spoke deliberately clearly. 'I love it.'

'You do?'

'I do!' I laughed. 'I just… I had no idea that Niall was looking for investors or…'

'He wants to spend some money on the bar, make it a proper performance space. It's just what I've always wanted to do, what Benny tried to do. Niall said he needed to give me a reason to come back from New York as well.' The words spilled out of his mouth unchecked, excitement lighting up his face. 'So you really like the idea?'

'Yes!' I laughed again. 'I really like it. Did you think I wouldn't?'

'I don't know. I… I didn't know if you wanted to own a bar or date a bar owner or whatever…' He shrugged.

I smiled and wrapped my arms around his neck. 'Are you the bar owner?' He nodded. 'Then I'm looking forward to dating a bar owner.'

* * *

><p>The phone rang one night in late September. Roger had only crashed into bed about an hour earlier and I was still semi-awake. Even so, we both jumped when we heard it and Roger was half out of bed before he realised the time.<p>

'It's… late,' he mumbled as he headed out into the living area. I could only agree as I followed him, wondering who on earth would phone at two in the morning. My imagination leapt into action as it could only in the small hours of the night as I envisaged car accidents, heart attacks and sudden illnesses. In the short time it took Roger to reach the handset, I'd silently begun mourning for every member of my family.

'Hello?' There was a long silence as Roger tried to wake up and pay attention, waving a hand at me as I let out unintelligible sounds and tried to take the receiver off of him. 'Mark?' I whimpered again. 'It's two in the morning, what…? Yeah, she's here, you want me to what?' Presumably following directions, he hit the speakerphone button and slumped down onto the sofa. 'So?'

'Cat?' Mark's disembodied voice drifted out of the machine. It had been so long since I'd heard his voice.

'Hello.' I exchanged a glance with Roger who shrugged. 'You okay?'

'Yeah. Yeah, actually, I'm amazing. Sorry, I know it's late with you, I just wanted to let you guys know…' He seemed to be taking a deep breath, and when he spoke again there was a sense of excitement and barely controlled electricity flowing through his words. 'Stacey had the baby this afternoon.'

'Oh Mark!' I exclaimed, as Roger grinned and said, 'That's great news.'

'It's a girl. We've called her Rose.'

'That's a lovely name. How heavy is she?'

'Six pounds ten. She's… beautiful.' For a moment, he fell silent in a most un-Mark like way. Then the Cohen genes kicked back in. 'Look, I'm really sorry for waking you up, I should probably have waited until tomorrow. I just…'

'Mark, it's fine!' Roger interrupted him, laughing. 'It's… brilliant. Congratulations.'

'How's Stacey?' I asked.

'She's wonderful. She said to say hey. She's pretty tired though, she was asleep when I left her.' Another pause. 'This is really silly, I'm so sorry…'

'Mark!' We both broke in at once and a wonderful moment followed, where the three of us laughed simultaneously, breaking down the thousands of miles between us. My joy at our friend's news was tinged with the tiniest bit of sadness: I wished we were there with him now.

Instead, after a few more minutes of conversation, Mark admitted he was exhausted too and that he didn't want to keep us up any longer. Knowing we were going to see him and Stacey, and meet Rose, in just over six weeks' time only just took the edge of the heart-sinking moment when he rang off. I hadn't realised how much I missed Mark until then.

'You alright?' Roger stroked my arm gently.

I snapped myself back into the apartment. 'Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?'

He studied me more intently than I thought somebody should be capable of at that time in the morning. Eventually, just when I was about to ask him what was wrong, he replied, 'No reason. You look tired.'

'Funny, that,' I remarked, smiling. It had been a long day at the restaurant and I'd been looking forward to bed all day. Now, though, I found I didn't want to go to bed. I wanted to talk about Mark's news and what it all meant and how much I missed him, Maureen, Joanne, and of course Collins. Exhaustion and a wave of what I could only describe as homesickness brought tears to my eyes.

'What is it?' Roger stood up and pulled me closer to him, grazing my forehead with his lips.

I shook my head. 'Nothing. I'm just… tired.'

He wiped away a stray tear with his thumb. After a pause he said, 'Cat, if there was anything… anything at all… you'd… tell me, right?'

'Of course!' I nodded, his earnestness bringing a smile to my face. 'But there's nothing. Come on, let's go back to bed.'

I wasn't lying to him. That night, I had no idea what it was that was making my eyes fill with tears and leaving me with a pain somewhere inside of me that I couldn't even name. Somehow, Roger had realised before me that something was wrong; he'd realised months ago and had been struggling to talk about it ever since. It took a few days in New York for me to catch up.


	53. Chapter 53

**Ordinarily I write something one evening and edit/proof read the next, but I found the latter half of this chapter quite hard to write and quite harrowing too. It's one of those scenes, like the one on the roof top when Cat found out about Roger's HIV status, which I've had in my head almost ever since this story began. However, please forgive it if it's awkward or clumsy; it's all my fault and not Cat and Roger's!**

* * *

><p>It was odd to be back in New York after all of this time. I felt the changes the past eleven months had brought since we last walked down this street and I'd spent only a small proportion of my life in the city. Walking around the side of our hired car and leaning against it alongside Roger, I wondered how he felt on this surprisingly sunny autumnal morning.<p>

'It looks… smaller,' he said eventually as we stared up at the apartment block he'd lived in for over a decade. 'That's stupid, isn't it?'

I shook my head. 'I think things like that can change. My apartment definitely feels bigger these days.'

Roger turned to look at me with a smile on his face and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. 'Thank you.'

'What for?'

'For making me seem less of a dork in comparison with you.'

'Hey!' I elbowed him in the ribs, giggling. 'I was trying to be nice.'

Roger laughed and kissed the top of my head affectionately. Sighing deeply, he said, 'I suppose we better go on up?'

'Well try to sound enthusiastic.' I rolled my eyes; his world-weariness about this whole trip was wearing a little thin. He'd been vacillating between uncontrollably excited and apathetic about the trip for the past few weeks. The flight had been punctuated with borderline irritating yawns as he complained quietly about everything from the choice of films to the overpriced duty-free which he had no intention of buying anyway.

Roger pulled a face, his jawline setting into that grim determination that had got him through his thirty-one years on this planet. 'I am excited, I just…' He shrugged and left his sentence unfinished, moving towards the boot of the car to get our suitcases out. 'It doesn't matter.'

'He's still your best friend,' I said. 'Nothing's going to change that, Rog. Not babies or anything.'

Roger lifted his head from the boot and gave me a strange look, as though he was looking at me for the first time.

'What?' I asked, my hands flying to my face to check for some blemish which hadn't been there when I'd last looked in a mirror at the airport.

'Nothing.'

'Then why are you looking at me like that?'

'No reason. Just… how do you always get me?' He shook his head and the smile spread back over his face. 'Come on. Let's go see him.'

Any of Roger's fears about Mark's new role having changed him were erased as soon as the door slid open to the apartment they'd shared for years. The sight of the two them embracing each other in hugs which threw away all masculine inhibitions more than made up for any last minute doubts I may have had about this trip. The same rib-crushing hug I received only seconds later made them vanish all together.

'It's so good to see you!' Mark said, looking between the two of us, pure elation filling his features. He looked so well; tired, yes, but a million miles away from the person I'd met last December. I would always love Stacey for doing this to him, for fixing him in a way that I'd never believed possible. The guilt I'd carried for the best part of a year at stealing his best friend away from him dissipated at long last; Roger would never have been able to repair Mark like this.

'You too.' Roger nodded as we stepped into the apartment. 'And I love what you've done with the place!' he added, grinning at the sight of the familiar living area which seemed to be identical to the one we'd walked out of at the beginning of the year.

'Some of us have had more important things to deal with than interior design,' Mark pointed out.

'Plus I like it.' Stacey emerged from the bedroom, a welcoming smile on her face. 'Hey you guys. How was the flight?' She hugged us with less force than Mark, but with no less warmth.

'Fine,' Roger replied, his natural reserve around people he didn't know that well kicking in and vastly contradicting his previous moans and groans about the whole journey. I stifled a smile.

'Hang on, Roger, you hate flying!' Mark called his bluff in the way that only a best friend can.

'He moaned all the way here,' I admitted, shooting him a triumphant look.

'God, so do I.' Stacey shuddered. 'Anyone who tries to tell you jet lag isn't as bad as baby-nights is lying. Speaking of which…' She grinned suddenly, her face lighting up in excitement at sharing her most beloved treasure with somebody new. 'Would you like to meet Rose?'

'Hasn't she only just gone down?' Mark interjected immediately, his face clouding over in the concern I recognised. 'She's not due a feed yet, is she?'

Stacey rolled her eyes good-naturedly. 'Stop flapping. She's fine and she'll love meeting another aunt and uncle. Be back in a second.' She disappeared back into Mark's – and her – bedroom.

Stacey's ability to cope with Mark's habitual anxiety was something I'd increasingly admire as those few days went by. Much as I loved him, I'd forgotten how he could panic over every little aspect of life and our predictions that Rose's arrival would only multiply this were proved to be pretty accurate. Stacey's laid-back ease complimented his constant worry perfectly and prevented the baby from being entirely wrapped in cotton wool. I couldn't help suspecting that, close as they were, Mark would never have entrusted his daughter to Roger quite as cavalierly unless Stacey had been involved in the transfer from one set of arms to another. I was pleased she was, because Roger holding a baby was fast becoming my favourite image of him, something it turned out that he was more than aware of.

Rose was beautiful, and I was pretty certain I wasn't being biased by that statement. Her eyes had already turned a deliciously rich chocolate brown and were the first thing you noticed about her as soon as she opened them. They had a peculiarly knowing look about them, as though she'd seen this all before somewhere and understood more about than you could ever hope to understand. As yet she was almost completely bald: 'But I'm hoping she'll have Mark's hair when it comes,' Stacey explained, shooting him a fond look. 'One redhead is enough in any family!' I disagreed with her entirely on that issue.

The thing I loved most about Rose, though, was her sheer presence. I could never tire of simply looking at her and trying to get my head around how she'd arrived in the world. A year ago, she hadn't existed; she hadn't even been a consideration in any of lives, least of all Mark and Stacey's. Now, here she was, a living breathing sign of how much everything had changed since those days. I wondered if she would ever really realise how much she represented for us.

The second evening we were in New York, the night before Thanksgiving, Mark and Roger slipped out for a drink. Mark had needed more persuading than I'd ever seen him require before for a social occasion. It took some concerted whining from Roger and a final 'Mark, I'm fine, just go!' from Stacey before he left. I was pleased; Roger and he had a lot to catch up on.

Despite not knowing Stacey all that well, being with her was easy. Rose gave us a common point to discuss, but there was more to Stacey than just being the mother of Mark's child as I learnt very quickly. She was efficient and organised, but also had an astonishingly creative streak in her. He'd met her through his job at Buzzline, yet her talents ran far beyond a sleazy cable TV show. As Rose had one of her brief and intermittent sleeps, she showed me the collection of photographs she'd already built up in the six weeks since the birth.

'They're not anything much,' she said modestly as she half-threw them towards me. 'I've just been playing around with the camera really. I don't normally do portraits.'

'These are amazing!' I exclaimed immediately as picture after picture of the baby popped out at me. 'Stacey, these are… beautiful!'

'Well, the subject matter helps.' She shrugged.

'Seriously,' I leafed through them, 'these are incredible. You've really captured her.'

'I do like this one,' Stacey admitted, showing me one of Mark, fast asleep on the sofa, and Rose cradled in his arms. She smiled. 'I haven't shown him it yet; he'll probably panic that he fell asleep at all.'

I laughed. 'Sounds like Mark.'

'I think it's really important to capture moments like this,' Stacey explained, as I continued looking through the photos. 'She's already changed so much. I don't want to forget.'

'There's not many of you though.'

'Thank God!' She grinned. 'Anyway, believe me, Mark is as bad with that video camera. I get the joys of being captured in full Technicolor glory! It's been nice doing something other than being a mom too. I mean, I love it, I love her! But it can get a bit overwhelming. I don't quite know what I'm going to do when she moves into her own room and I have to give my dark room up!'

'What about Roger's room?'

'No.' Stacey shook her head abruptly. 'That's… staying.' She gave a small chuckle and shook her head. 'What those two have… it's more than friendship, isn't it? It's like… family. I'm not going to try to compete with that.'

I could only agree, it having been a conclusion I'd come to long ago. It was the reason I'd stayed behind this evening rather than gate-crashing their time together.

'Anyway, wait there a second.' Stacey scrambled to her feet and headed towards the bedroom she'd commandeered as a dark room. 'I've got a photo I've just developed today. You'll love it.' She was back almost before she'd gone. 'It's weird. I wasn't even trying very hard and the lighting is pretty awful but it's got something.' She gave a mischievous smile. 'Turns out Roger is quite photogenic.'

That was something I'd always known and it was on the tip of my tongue to say so when I looked down at the photo. Any words I might been about to utter died on my lips.

It was a photo of nothing special, a very ordinary moment where Mark and Roger were sat side by side on the sofa. Stacey had managed to capture the last seconds of a shared smile between them, just as Roger was glancing back down at the bundle in his arms. Rose herself was almost completely obscured, yet Roger's face said everything it needed to. As Stacey had said, he was photogenic. It was more than that though, and as I continued staring at the photo it felt as though I was moving closer to something that had been just on the horizon for as long as I could remember.

'Babies really suit him, don't they?'

There it was. The horizon. It was like that moment in a film when they ran forwards only to realise that the cliff ran out and there was nothing but a canyon ahead of them. No way out. My stomach lurched downwards as the blindingly obvious hit me in the ribs. How could I have been so stupid? This had been staring me in the face for months and I'd cheerfully turned away every time Roger had asked if I was alright, believing I was. Now, suddenly, I realised I wasn't. And Roger wasn't here.

'Cat, are you okay?' I stared up to find Stacey looking down at me, smiling but with a frown between her eyes. She looked genuinely concerned for me, a relative stranger, and I wondered what I looked like to her, struck mute by a simple photograph. She must think I'd gone insane. Maybe I had.

'I'm… fine,' I lied, just as Rose woke up in the other room and began the by now familiar demands for her latest drink. Suddenly every scream was a stab to my stomach and I knew I couldn't stay there, not right now. I got to my feet.

'I better see to her.' Stacey dithered, caught between her natural instincts to cater for her daughter's every need and me. 'Are you sure you're okay, Cat?' This was unfair on her.

'Of course.' I heard the words but didn't connect them with myself, as if it was someone else speaking as my feet carried me towards the door. 'I'm… I'm going to go out for a bit, actually. Leave you and Rose in peace. I'll probably try and find Roger and… Mark…' I drifted out the door without any further explanation, no doubt leaving Stacey certain that Roger's girlfriend was not all there.

Outside it was a typical New York November evening with a brisk wind which cut right through me. It was only when I left the building that I realised my coat was still hanging up in the apartment and I was cold without it. Going back was never an option though. So I started walking, no idea where I was headed for. There was nowhere I could imagine that would make me feel any better; this cut too deeply.

Well, there was one place.

* * *

><p>Arms encircled me from behind and I jumped until I heard that voice which I'd both longed and dreaded to hear ever since leaving the apartment over an hour earlier. 'You forgot your coat.' Its familiar bulkiness was draped around my shoulders and Roger pressed himself up against my back to try to warm me up. I wasn't sure what to say or do, and so I focused instead upon the people skating on the other side of the barrier, looping and circling each other like birds. Turning to look at Roger seemed beyond me right then so I simply settled back against him, wondering how I'd ever get out the words that had lodged in my throat.<p>

'I always said this was a good place for thinking,' he said eventually, his voice low and casual in my ear, as though his girlfriend heading halfway across Manhattan by herself late at night was entirely usual behaviour. Probably for his previous girlfriends it was, I mused, a jealousy that I'd never experienced before directed towards both of them, but especially April. The anger I felt towards her spilled out of me as Roger added in a much more tender tone, 'What are you thinking?'

Ducking out of his embrace, I stepped away, suddenly finding being so close to him more than I could handle. I shot him a look in lieu of the words I couldn't yet find. The look he gave me back unleashed the tears which had, I realised now, been pooling in my eyes for months. He apologised without ever opening his mouth.

'You already know,' I said finally, choking and angry that he was even asking. He'd known for weeks, probably months; it had been in his every look and touch, and I'd been so stupid, so blind, so _arrogant_ that I'd completely overlooked it all, putting it down to Roger's typical pessimistic nature. Embarrassment at having been so foolish flooded over me and angered me even further. 'You've always known.'

'Known what?' I stared at him incredulously and he winced at his words. 'Okay. But… say it, Cat. You need to say it.'

'This isn't some therapy session, Roger,' I spat out, my voice high-pitched. Only the shouts and giggles of children drowned it out and drove a knife even further into me. 'This isn't Life Support!'

'I know. Cat, I know.' He took a step further towards me, raising his hand as if to touch me and then thinking better of it and folding his arms. 'But you still need to do it.'

I met his eyes, so full of concern and sympathy and something else – the same raw pain I could feel eating away at me. It was that which finally forced the words past my lips. 'We're not going to have children, are we?'

It was as though he shrugged off one burden, the great secret, at the same time as accepting another. He closed his eyes slowly before replying. 'No, Cat. We're not.'

I choked out a sob and the pain in my stomach took over as I slumped down onto a park bench. Roger looked down at me without speaking for what felt like forever. I covered my mouth, ashamed of my reaction and replaying the last few months in my head. It was all so obvious now; not just Roger's concern but everything. This had been creeping up on me silently.

'You knew,' I said finally, my voice much quieter. 'You knew.'

'Yeah.'

'Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you…?' I tailed off, unable to put words together in order to explain myself properly.

'I tried to.' He had, I knew he had. Those tender touches, those constant questions as to whether I was alright. God, even the way he'd looked at me watching him with Rose. He'd constantly tried to say something and I'd just been too stupid to see. 'I didn't want to see you hurt.'

I snorted bitterly. 'Brilliant job, Roger.' I winced as my words hit him hard and hated myself. 'I'm sorry, I didn't…' I tailed off and Roger continued as if I'd never spoken.

'I wasn't sure if you knew, not really. Sometimes it was like you'd already realised and… got over it. Sorry, that's not what I meant,' he added as I gasped at what he said. 'I meant… oh fuck.' He sat down heavily beside me, his head in his hands. Taking a deep breath, he added, 'I didn't know you wanted kids. Not really. Not that that's the point, it's just…'

'I didn't know.' I shook my head. 'I honestly didn't, not until now. Children have always been… I don't know, the future, miles away. I've never thought… But now…' I choked on my words again.

Roger's hand landed on the back of my neck, finding the spot where tension always tied me into knots. He gently massaged it as tears rolled down my cheeks. For a time we sat in silence. I gazed out across the ice skating rink, taking in the couples laughing together, the families enjoying the holiday season. I wondered if any of it would ever again seem normal to me.

'I'm sorry.'

'It's not your fault.'

He pulled a face. 'It sort of is.'

He was right of course. His diagnosis was something we rarely talked about and I had almost never thought about in the days since leaving this city behind last winter. There was no need to: he was healthy and well and it was easier to think about Collins before all of that stuff got in the way. If I ever wondered what the future would bring for us, Roger's HIV was something I tended to skirt around. But here it was, laid bare in front of us: here was the reason why Roger and I would never have children.

Yet still…

'There's a chance though.' I sat up, turning to look at him, clearly taking him by surprise. 'Just… listen a moment. It doesn't mean we can't have children. Think about it, we could still try, it wouldn't necessarily mean they'd get it. We could still-'

'Cat, no.'

'But it could work, it-'

'No!' I jumped as Roger snapped, his eyes flashing angrily. 'I've lost too many people already, you really think I want to lose you and our child?'

'It's not definite-' I tried again, the last hope dying within me as he shot me down time after time.

'I don't care. We're not doing it.'

Despair took over. 'So what? We're just… not going to have children? Ever?'

For a long moment, Roger looked into my eyes, a strange and piercing stare. Then he dropped his gaze to the ground. 'We're not going to have children. But you still could,' he added. 'You only have to say the word.'

'What?' I frowned, my brain unable to keep up with him. 'I don't understand.'

'I'm the problem. It's always me, isn't it?' He gave a rueful smile, but it was the sadness which had settled over him which I noticed the most. 'You're fine, Cat. You could… have a dozen babies if you wanted to. With someone else.'

My stomach roiled, unable to cope with how this evening was progressing. Only hours ago I'd cheerfully waved Roger and Mark off to their night out. I'd curled up on the sofa and marvelled at Stacey's photographs. It had all been so _normal_ for the first time in my life; everything had seemed so settled and safe. There had been nothing to worry about anymore, not Mark, not Roger, not money. Now here we were and I couldn't believe what he was saying.

'You… you want to break up?'

'No!' He grabbed my hands with a violence which frightened me and he released his grip almost instantly. 'I'm not saying that. I… I just want you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. And if that means you having children then…' He shook his head and I saw the tears shining in his eyes. 'If you want children, Cat, I can't have you. That's all.' Abruptly, he stood up. 'Come on, you're freezing, let's go for a walk.'

We walked and talked for hours and it was long after midnight by the time we returned to the apartment that evening. Mark was awake, giving Rose her first bottle of the night. We exchanged watery smiles with him but he didn't probe any further; I wondered how long he'd known what had taken me so many months to figure out. At some stage during the night I must have slept, wrapped up so tightly in Roger's arms that I could hardly breathe, but I woke up the next morning feeling more exhausted than ever. Roger had gone, leaving a simple note, only differing from previous notes because of its specificity: '_Life Support. Xxx.' _I knew he was trying to keep himself together for me, that in the long run his attending that meeting was probably better for everybody. Still, I loathed being left alone this morning, having to face up his final words last night by myself.

'It's up to you, Cat. Your choice. I'll love you either way.'


	54. Chapter 54

**I couldn't leave Cat and Roger in limbo like that for long. Roger's really hard to write at the moment - not sure why. Will keep trying.**

* * *

><p>Trying to appear cheerful was exhausting. It was an unspoken agreement between Roger and me that we'd do our best not to spoil Mark and Stacey's first Thanksgiving as parents. Both of them had deliberately evaded their families' many invitations in order to share the holiday with us; the least we owed them was a few faux-enthusiastic grins and laughs. Rose's presence was a blessing and a curse and on more than one occasion I had to excuse myself to hide the tears threatening to escape. Roger's smoking habit, which had been waning somewhat, kicked into another gear. Between my tears and his cigarettes, we weren't in the same room together very often.<p>

Our acting was poor, Roger exclaiming excitedly over things in a way he never did even when he was happy, and me managing very few words over the course of the day. We wouldn't have fooled even Stacey, and for Mark it was all too clear that there was something wrong. Rose came into her own then, giving both of them something else to focus on other than their friends' obvious pain, and I was grateful for her. All too often, though, the baby was asleep, and it was then that Mark shot both of us anxious glances. My first Thanksgiving was an entirely unsuccessful one.

It was with some relief that we got into the car to drive up to Red Hook the day after Thanksgiving. Worn out from our efforts the previous day, we travelled in silence, accompanied only by an old-school rock radio station. The motion of the car lulled me to sleep for a short distance and I found some comfort in the oblivion of unconsciousness. I was almost disappointed that I had to wake up.

Lyn's joy at seeing us again tided us over for the first few hours of our visit. When her conversation dried up and, for the first time, she looked between the two of us and instinctively sensed something was wrong, I complained of a migraine and went to bed. Rude as I knew I was being, I lingered there all afternoon and was asleep before Roger joined me.

The next morning I woke and dressed alone, shrugging into the jumper and jeans I'd deliberately brought with me on this trip. This time, I was prepared for the New York weather and for life out on the Davis family farm: no slinky little velvet dresses on this visit. No amount of sartorial preparation had made me ready for what had happened so far. Roger's absence this morning was nothing unusual in the grand scheme of things, but set against our talk three nights ago, it seemed to mean more. It certainly wasn't helping me to feel any better.

The house was empty when I made it downstairs. Unwilling to help myself to anything in the kitchen, I instead drifted outside onto the back porch. It was a beautiful day so far, one of those golden autumnal days where the sun shines through the trees and reminds you that it isn't quite winter yet: there is still hope. The sounds of the farm surrounded me and I could hear the sheep bleating just out of sight. It sounded very much like they weren't enjoying whatever was happening to them. I could sympathise.

I didn't feel any better this morning than I had done the day before or the day before that. The choice Roger had dangled in front of me loomed large, an insurmountable obstacle that I wished I could avoid. Two days ago, being with Roger had seemed to be everything. I hadn't even considered it ever ending. But his words had put the idea there, offering me two diverging paths which would never meet again. The leaden weight in my stomach increased as I wondered if I was actually considering walking away.

'Tea?' I jumped as Lyn appeared beside me. 'Oh sorry. Didn't mean to make you jump.' She held the mug in her hand out as a peace offering. 'Thought you looked like you could use a cup.'

'Thank you.' I accepted it with a smile.

'Feeling better?'

I turned away, unwilling to lie to Roger's mother's face. 'Yes, thank you.' I willed her to go back inside and leave me alone to my brooding. Making conversation just wasn't something I was capable of right now.

'They're moving the sheep from the bottom pasture for the winter,' she said, apparently immune to my psychic urges. 'I think Michael's been waiting for Roger to come home and help him. Not that he'd ever say that of course.' She laughed and rolled her eyes at me, a shared joke of what Davis men were like. I managed a weak smile.

'He's spent the morning agonising over that horse of his,' Lyn continued. 'We should never have bought her, she's been a disaster from start to finish. Now, here we are, she's coming up to twenty, and she's hardly been ridden in her life. I can't think who he's going to sell her to.'

'He's selling her?' I broke in suddenly. This was something new and it hurt an unreasonable amount that he hadn't even mentioned it to me. Had we already gone that far? 'Why?'

'Who knows?' Lyn shook her head. 'I mean, she is expensive to have here doing nothing, but that's nothing we haven't dealt with for the last fourteen years: I don't know why now is any different.' She gave me a brief sidelong glance. 'I did suggest you take her back home with you next week, but he was a bit hesitant about that.'

I looked away again. 'I'm not sure how easy it is to ship horses abroad,' I replied, avoiding the real issue.

Lyn continued to look at me before following my gaze as the flock of sheep crested the hill. 'No, I suppose that is something we'd have to look into. It was just a thought. Between you and me, I quite like having her around. It's nice not to be the only woman.' She took a sip of her coffee and I wondered if she'd finished and would go inside now. 'So how was your first Thanksgiving?'

'Lovely thank you,' I replied hastily, choosing not to even think about it.

'And how is Mark and… Stacey, is it? And the baby?' Lyn gave a small laugh. 'All these years and I've never even met Mark, you know, just spoken to him on the phone. He seems nice though.'

'He is. He's… great.' I nodded.

'And the baby?'

I gripped the mug of tea harder and took a moment before replying as honestly as I possibly could. 'She's gorgeous.'

The sheep flooded down the hill, two dogs circling around them, responding to the piercing whistles we could hear even at this distance. Two figures walked behind them, one signalling to the dogs and the other with their hands buried in their jeans' pockets. I knew that walk as well as I knew his voice and his laugh and the way his eyes darkened when he turned to me first thing in the morning. He was the most familiar thing in my life.

'He's really worried about you.' I looked at Lyn abruptly and she sighed heavily. 'And I promised him I wouldn't say anything, I said I wouldn't get involved. But, Cat, honey, he's been worried about you for months.'

I wrapped my arms around myself. 'How much has he told you?'

'Most things.' She smiled a little apologetically. 'We stayed up a long time last night.'

I nodded slowly. Part of me was strangely pleased. Roger didn't do sharing; if he'd been talking to his parents, even about me, he was making progress. I just wished he'd been sharing more of this with me.

'You know, Michael and I wanted more children,' Lyn said now. 'This house was built for more than three of us. But it didn't happen and-'

I held up a hand, interrupting in a way which was most unlike me. 'Sorry, I just… I can't listen to this.' I felt my face burn red in embarrassment at having behaved so rudely. 'I'm sorry, Lyn, I didn't mean to…'

'No, you're right.' Lyn shook her head. 'I have no idea what you're feeling right now, Cat. No idea at all. I shouldn't try to pretend to. But will you just listen to one thing?' She waited patiently and finally I nodded. It crossed my mind that walking away from Roger also meant walking away from Lyn, and that hurt almost as much. 'It took a long time for us to have Roger. And I love him desperately, he's the most wonderful thing I've ever done. But it hasn't ever been easy with him. This,' she gestured up the hill to where father and son walked side by side, 'I couldn't have imagined this before. He was always so keen to escape from here. Six years we went with barely a phone call from him. Six years. It was agony. And you know who was always here? Michael. Without him…' She tailed off and shook her head, as though she could never begin to explain that. Hastily, she added, 'I'm not trying to tell you what to do, Cat. I'd never do that. You'd make a wonderful mother.' As the tears spilled over again, she put an arm around me, holding me tight. 'And I think it's so unfair. Cruel and hard and unfair. But it isn't everything, my love. There are other ways. I just… I don't want you or Roger to regret anything. Not anymore. You understand?'

And I did somehow. Nodding, I leaned in closer to her, remembering how her previous words of wisdom had, in their own way, come true. I could have resented her obvious plea on behalf of her own son; no matter how hard she tried, of course she was always going to be on his team. But even the thought of us being on opposing teams brought fresh tears to my eyes. Lyn and I were joined for life by the sheer fact that we both loved Roger. I had to at least listen to her advice.

Some time after I'd stopped crying, Lyn gave me one final squeeze before taking her arm away. When she spoke, her voice was more upbeat than it had been before. 'I'm doing soup for lunch, is that alright?' The change of subject was unexpected and it took me a second to adjust. Before I could reply, she said a little louder. 'Soup alright, Roger?'

I turned to see him just walking through the small vegetable patch at the back of the house. Lyn's faux-joviality seemed to be catching as he replied, 'Sounds good to me.' Lyn went back inside the house as he climbed the three steps up onto the back porch and came face to face with me. The falseness in his voice vanished as he took a preparatory deep breath before saying, 'Hey. You… okay?'

It was the question he'd been asking me all year and I'd been answering entirely untruthfully. Now I considered my words carefully, worn out from the crying and anxiety. Lying would have been easier in the short term, but that wasn't an option anymore. The short term wasn't enough. So I answered honestly. 'No. Not really.' Roger nodded thoughtfully and I could already see his mind working overtime, wondering how he could make it okay, as if it was his job to do that. Making him feel inadequate was a fresh pain. 'But I will be. At least… I want to be.'

He regarded me carefully for a few moments. 'Do you want to go for a walk after lunch?'

I didn't need to think for very long. 'I'd really like that.'

* * *

><p>'I thought we were going for a walk.'<p>

'We are.' Roger caught my doubtful look over his shoulder at the horse he was leading. 'Delilah's coming with us.'

'She's not a dog.'

Roger grinned, presumably at my apprehension at having the huge animal accompany us. 'You noticed?' By way of explanation he added, 'I'm turning her out for a bit of a run around. Old girl needs to stretch her legs. You can say hello you know.'

'Hello,' I said monotonously.

'Or… pat her?' His eyes sparkled mischievously. 'Oh come on, Cat, she won't bite!'

'Really? I'm fine from here, thank you.'

Roger seemed to decide that he was wasting his breath and energy on this particular cause as we began walking up the slope away from the house and barn. I kept a safe distance away from Delilah's clomping hooves and swishing tail. She at least seemed eager to be heading outside today and we travelled at quite a pace. It just about all I could do to keep up with the two of them, and certainly negated any attempts at conversation. I could at least thank the horse for that.

Once we'd reached the paddock, Roger let the mare go and, with one shake of her head as if to make sure she really was free, Delilah trotted as far away from us as possible. Roger remained standing with his back to me, gathering the head collar and lead rope together. It was clear that it was up to me to begin this.

'Your mum said you were thinking of selling her. Delilah, I mean,' I clarified, a nervous laugh escaping. 'Not your mum.'

He flashed me a smile over his shoulder before turning back to watch as his horse threw a few cheerful bucks in before settling down to grazing. 'Yeah, I was giving it some thought.'

'You didn't say.' I tried to avoid sounding too accusatory.

'It didn't seem important.' He glanced at me again. 'Sorry, it wasn't deliberate.'

'It's alright. It's just your mum didn't know why you'd suddenly decided to sell.'

He shrugged. 'I don't know. Seems the thing to do. It's not much of a life for the old girl, is it? She deserves something a bit better.'

I nodded towards where she was peacefully munching away on the grass now. 'She looks like she likes it here well enough.'

'Yeah. I guess.' Finally, he turned to look at me properly. His eyes fell on me with such kindness and concern that my only response was a wobbly smile. 'You look really tired. I'm sorry.'

'Will you stop saying that?' I said, venturing a few steps closer to him. 'It's… not your fault. Not really.'

There was a long pause and then there was a subtle-Davis conversation changer. 'You and Mom seemed to be having a long chat this morning.'

I looked down. 'Sort of. I really like her.'

'She really likes you.' He smiled. 'Like, a ridiculous amount. Almost bit my head off last night when I said…' He sighed, the smile vanishing. 'When I said I'd given you a choice.'

'She said you weren't very enthusiastic when she suggested you take Delilah back to England with you. You… you didn't think you were coming back with me, did you?'

He half-shrugged and then finally shook his head. 'No.'

My heart broke at his simple acceptance of his place in life, as though that choice had always been the logical one. Perhaps it was. Still, being logical had never been our forte.

'I asked Mom not to say anything.'

'I know. She tried not to.' I gave a wobbly smile. 'Obviously you didn't get your chatty genes from her.'

'What else did she say?'

I thought back over the talk we'd had that morning, how what Lyn had said had shifted everything ever so slightly. It hadn't exactly made this decision easier; it hadn't suddenly flicked a switch in my brain. But it had cleared away some of the fog and offered me something else: hope. Yet there was really only one thing which had stood out.

'She said I'd make a wonderful mother.' A sob followed my words which brought Roger the last few steps towards me, his hands falling onto my shoulders with a reassuring weight.

'Of course you would. You'd be… amazing.' His face contorted in pain. 'Oh Cat, are you sure? I'm not going to change my mind you know?' We both gave rueful smiles, his stubborn nature as engrained a part of our lives as his self-doubt. 'I know, I know, when do I ever change my mind? I just… this is huge, Cat. I don't want you to regret it.' Hooking a piece of hair behind my ear, he added, 'I don't want you to end up hating me.'

'That is never going to happen,' I assured him, never more certain in my life. After everything we'd been through together, everything he'd done to me since we'd first set eyes on each other last July, hatred had never crossed my mind. 'I'm not saying it's going to be easy. I'm not going to get over it overnight.' He winced as I unwittingly quoted his ill-chosen words of a few days ago. 'But if it's a choice between you and someone else's children… Roger, that isn't a choice anymore.'

He rested his forehead against mine, and I felt the tension of the last few days drain out of both of us. I was tired, he hadn't been wrong about that, and I suspected that he wasn't feeling much better. We'd looked forward to this trip for so long, we'd worked so hard; I hoped that it would improve from here on in and we'd have some cheerful memories to take home with us. Right now, I wasn't quite sure how I'd respond to the inevitable 'How was your holiday?' from Declan or Meg. The truth so far wasn't really water cooler conversation.

'I love you,' he said eventually, his voice little louder than a whisper.

'I know.' I suppressed my smile as he continued to stare into my eyes before I finally stopped holding out on him and said, 'I love you too.'

'Marry me.'

I stopped breathing. So did Roger, whose eyes widened whilst his head remained against mine, almost as if he was wondering if he'd really said that out loud. It had taken my by surprise; it seemed to have crept up on him too.

'Wh-what?' I stammered out.

'Shit.' Roger pulled away from me, his hand over his mouth. 'Oh shit. I didn't mean to say that.'

'Oh. Right.'

'Not that I didn't mean it. I mean… Oh shit.' Running his hands through his hair, Roger continued babbling and I tried to keep up, still hearing those words in my head: _Marry me_. 'I didn't mean to say it like that, I've been thinking and planning and I've almost done it on a couple of occasions – like your birthday, remember your birthday? Then I thought maybe this trip we could go to the Empire State Building, join that whole clichéd bunch of people but I guess, at least I'm _hoping_, you'd hate that, because I would. And then it's all got weird anyway and I could have waited but…' He pulled a face again. 'I'm making a mess of this, aren't I? Shit.'

I smiled then, as I always smiled at Roger's moments of Lost Boy awkwardness. The anguish of his error was written all over his face and I loved him all the more for it.

He gave a wry grin and sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as he fumbled in his pocket. 'I've been carrying the ring around for weeks.'

He tossed a box towards me which I fumbled and dropped. My eyes still locked on his, I bent down and picked it up. It was nothing fancy; in fact, it was sort of shabby looking, a small square box with worn black velvet on it. It had definitely seen better days. Still, I opened it.

Nestled inside was a ring. That was all that struck me at first, despite his explanation before he'd thrown it to me. I gave a sharp intake of breath and put a hand over my mouth as I continued to study it. The centre stone was a pale pink, almost colourless in some lights, and square-cut. Around it were clusters of small diamond-looking stones, although I couldn't help thinking that that many diamonds would have cost a fortune. They continued in clusters of three around the band as far as I could see. It was beautiful, full of understated, old-time glamour. The band itself was ever so slightly tarnished, as though it had seen much use already in its life. I loved it instantly.

'It was my grandmother's,' Roger said now, stepping closer again, his shadow falling over the ring. 'My dad's mom. It's rose quartz in the centre, and crystals around it. They're supposed to be lucky, you see, and… well, I figured we could always use some luck. You hate it don't you?' he said now hastily. 'It's not diamonds, I know, I'm sorry, we can get another one, you can choose it, you-'

'Shut up.' He looked genuinely stunned at my rudeness and I gave a small laugh, pleased I could still surprise him. 'Honestly, Rog, just… shush. I love it. It's… breathtaking.' Looking up from the ring again, I asked, 'Are you really asking me to marry you?'

'Yes.'

'But… you've never once mentioned it before, you've never shown any _interest_…' I shook my head, baffled by his sudden decision. It wasn't that we'd talked about marriage before; we hadn't. In truth, I'd barely noticed that we'd never once mentioned the M-word, something I knew that my old acquaintances back in London would never have understood. It seemed that the last few years had been filled with people I knew meeting somebody and getting engaged, as though the ring on the finger was everything. I'd fallen for the hype myself, accepting Sam's proposal without thinking, because it was what you did when you were in your twenties. Weddings were the standard social events of each summer and marriage seemed to be another designer label that you just had to have if you wanted to remain mingling in the same social circles. Yet with Roger, I'd accepted our future together as it was, without the merest suggestion that we'd ever pin it down to a piece of paper. Somehow, I'd thought Roger was, if not anti-marriage, at least ambivalent to it. It seemed to fit with his general attitude towards life.

But now here he was, offering me a family heirloom. The impulsivity of it was Roger to a T – yet this didn't sound completely spur of the moment. _I've been carrying the ring around for weeks_.

'When did you get this?' I gestured to the ring.

'Last Christmas.'

'What?' My jaw dropped. 'But we'd only just… how…?'

'My dad gave it to me. Said Granny had left it to me in her will. Said it was the first time he'd trusted me with it. He always thought I'd do something stupid with it before now. Before you.'

'I didn't know your dad even liked me!'

'He's a Davis. Of course he likes you, we have impeccable taste.'

Ignoring his flippant tone, I pressed on. 'You've had this ring for nearly a year?'

'Yeah.'

'I didn't know.'

'That was sort of the point.'

'So why…?'

'Why now? Why not?' He gave up his false carefree attitude as soon as I raised my eyebrows. Forced to explain properly, he went about it with the usual Roger-shrug. 'I've been thinking about it for a while. Ever since you said Sam got engaged.'

'Sam?' I spat the name out. 'This is all about Sam?'

'No! I'm not saying that. This isn't some macho competition thing. It's about you. You think getting engaged is important.'

'I've never said that!'

'You didn't have to. Just like you didn't have to say you wanted children. Hey.' He lifted my chin up as I dropped my gaze, trying to avoid the tears rising up in my eyes again and completely failing at his next words. 'I can't give you the children. I'm not even sure I'll make a brilliant husband. But I can give you this. And… I can try. If you want me to, that is?'

It wasn't the most conventional proposal in the world. I knew that the story of our engagement would never interest many people, the two of us standing in a field dressed in jeans and jumpers. There was nothing romantic or fairytale or sexy about this. But it was real and it was Roger and that meant so much more. My throat choked with sobs, I nodded and Roger swept me up in a hug so quickly that he almost winded me.

'Thank God for that,' he muttered into my ear. 'I've been scared of losing that ring all year.'

'I suppose it's my problem now,' I whispered back, giggling through my tears.

'Our problem.'


	55. Chapter 55

**So I know this has been slow: massive apologies if anybody has been reading this and waiting on the next instalment. I got distracted by The Breakfast Club. As a quick recap of where this has got to, Cat and Roger are living in relative harmony in London, yet on a visit back to New York to see Mark and Stacey's baby, Cat finally realised that Roger was never going to allow them to have their own children because of his illness. After a few days of wondering whether she wanted children more than Roger, Cat has accepted Roger's proposal. And here we pick up again...**

* * *

><p>Two days later, it was as though the ring had always been on my finger. I couldn't quite believe it. It was like it had moulded itself to me, or I'd moulded myself to it; I wasn't one-hundred per cent sure which way it worked. But I liked it.<p>

I wasn't the only one. Lyn and Michael had both, in their own ways, expressed their pleasure at my becoming ever so slightly closer to being a real member of their family. Michael had acknowledged the ring with a nod and a 'Fits alright?' In contrast, Lyn had found every opportunity to give me affectionate hugs and squeezes, actions I thoroughly enjoyed. I tried not to think about how differently my own mother would take the news and concentrated instead on this moment now.

It was Roger's reaction to the ring which made me smile the widest. We'd always slept in almost uncomfortably close proximity to each other. Nothing had changed, except somehow his hand always found my left one and we awoke with him clutching the ring so tightly it left indentations in his palm. Having never really labelled what we had, the word 'fiance' rarely left either of our lips, but his touch would, from now on, always revolve around that ring.

The remaining days at the farm were blissful. Mornings were spent leisurely peeling potatoes or running errands with Lyn whilst Roger and Michael completed the work on the farm; afternoons were our time and we walked further than I thought possible without ever leaving his family's property.

'This place is beautiful,' I remarked one day as we stared down from one of the many hills at the house nestling in the valley. 'I can't believe you ever wanted to leave it.'

'It all worked out for the best in the end, didn't it?' Roger replied, squeezing my hand, and I had to agree. This was the very best.

The night before we were due to head back to New York to spend more time with Mark and Stacey, and actually get around to seeing Maureen and Joanne who had spent Thanksgiving in Las Vegas in the way only they could, we received a phone call from Mark. Roger's initial confusion as to how his room-mate of over ten years had got his home number was met with a cutting response: 'Your mom gave it to me. You know, when you weren't calling her?'

Even so, it was a bizarre occurrence and Roger and I exchanged confused glances as Mark proceeded to shoot the breeze on speakerphone for what felt like forever. Eventually, Roger blurted out, 'Is everything okay?'

'Yeah. Everything's great. Why?'

'We're coming back tomorrow. Couldn't this have waited?'

'Oh. Right. Yeah. Actually… there is a reason I'm calling.' We waited but could never have been prepared for his next statement, delivered in a rush as though he wasn't quite sure how to say it. 'Stacey and me… we're getting married. Tomorrow. Could you come straight to it?'

Stunned silence from our end was eventually broken into by some scuffling and laughter on the other end of the phone.

'What Mark means is,' Stacey said, unable to contain her giggles as she tried to rescue the situation, 'if you could make a detour to Scarsdale on your way home, we've decided to have a very small ceremony. We'd love it if you could come.'

It was an incredibly romantic and spontaneous development, one I'd not have thought the ultra-cautious Mark was capable of. It also gave us precisely zero time to sort out any suitable clothing, something I was still bemoaning as we made our way to Scarsdale the following morning.

'I know Mark and Stacey won't mind and it was really nice of your mum to lend me something but… well… it's not that I don't like her, it's just…' I tailed off as Roger's deep laughter took over the car and I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat. 'There's no need to laugh at me.'

'I'm not,' he insisted, taking my hand and lifting it to his still fluttering lips. 'I'm… laughing with you.' When I shot him a sidelong look, he realised his attempts at charming me weren't working especially well and put both hands back on the steering wheel. 'Seriously, Cat, you look nice.'

'Well that's a lie.'

'It's not! I mean, shit, _this_ is hardly a tux, is it?' He gestured down at the jeans and jumper combination he'd thrown together that morning. 'Next to me, you'll look way appropriate.'

I doubted he was right. My own outfit was only one step up from his casual-casual look, having been saved by a dress Lyn had unearthed from her wardrobe which, she admitted, had seen better days. It was a pretty enough floral pattern, and with some careful pinning it even sort of fit, but it was a million miles away from what I usually considered appropriate wedding wear. What's more, it seemed so un-special for a day which, to me at least, felt so very important.

I must have been silent long enough for Roger to notice as his hand crept over mine again, his fingers finding the ring as though it had always been there, and giving me a tight squeeze. 'Cat, you look amazing. You always do.'

'You're biased,' I replied, still unwilling to give in entirely, but unable to prevent a smile breaking out as he shot one in my direction. 'Oh, shut up. I just want today to be special.'

'It will be.' He lifted my hand to his lips again. 'Just enjoy it.'

It was only as we parked the car outside the small hall Stacey had directed us to over the phone that I hesitated. 'Wait.' Roger obeyed the request. 'What about this?' I waggled my ring finger at him, perhaps a little excessively as I enjoyed the way the light bounced off of the stones.

'What about it?'

Rolling my eyes, I said, 'I can hardly upstage the bride can I?'

'Will anyone even notice?'

'I assume Maureen's coming?'

He pulled a face. 'Okay, good point. Here.' He turned the ring deftly around on my finger. 'Just don't go waving it around and nobody will be any the wiser to your terrible decision.'

'Oh, I didn't mean it like that, I meant…' I tailed off as a deliciously devilish grin came across Roger's face. 'I hate you sometimes, you know?'

'No, you don't.' His grin broadened as he took my head in his hands and kissed me in a way which made actually having to leave the car and be with other people suddenly very undesirable.

* * *

><p>I'd been to a number of weddings over the past few years and seen all the glitz and glamour that they could offer. Some of them I'd found interminably boring (Amelia's immediately sprang to mind) and some I'd sort of enjoyed. Mark and Stacey's was nothing like any of them, and to my mind, that was a good thing. The strange thing was that I'd expected to find it overly emotional, but instead I found myself laughing far more than crying, something especially helped by Stacey who was the happiest bride I'd ever seen.<p>

'We're so glad you could come!' She flung her arms around both Roger and me on several occasions over the day, mindless to the creases she was imprinting in her dress. Even when Rose was sick on her she shrugged it off and continued as though nothing had happened. If I hadn't already known that she was perfect for Mark, their wedding day confirmed it for me.

'That was,' Maureen declared as the music began winding down for the evening and she slumped down in a vague champagne haze into the chair next to me, 'the _best_ wedding I have _ever_ been to.'

'Amen to that.' Roger clinked glasses with her.

'Oh please don't!' For the first time that day, Stacey actually looked slightly perturbed as she crouched down next to us. When we raised our eyebrows at her she said, a little sheepishly, 'Please don't get Mark's mom going on Hebrew again. I only just survived the last time.'

'Yeah, how did you get away without smashing a glass?' Roger leaned back in his chair with a teasing smile on his face.

'Dangerous around the baby.' Stacey gave him a wink but shook her head at the same time. 'I swear, we only just managed to avoid a serious Cohen family explosion. She's never seemed that Jewish before! We had to get married here in Scarsdale to even mildly appease her.'

'Rose seems to help,' I remarked, glancing at where Mark's mother was proudly showing off her newest grand-daughter to just about everybody she bumped into.

Stacey's face lit up into a warm smile. 'Yeah. Luckily for me, the only thing Mrs Cohen values more highly than going to synagogue is her family, and her grandchildren specifically. If I can give her a grandson, I'm right in there! Speaking of which…' She stood up and shook her red hair back off her shoulders. 'I really should be thinking about getting my beautiful daughter home. Not something I thought I'd be saying at my own wedding, but whatever. Life turns on a dime.'

As if by magic, Mark appeared by her side. 'You want to go home?'

Stacey smiled and wrapped her arms around his waist. 'Starting to think about it. But first… you need to spend some time with your friends.' With a gentle push, she directed him towards us. 'I'm gonna go make nice with Cindy.'

'Under the thumb already,' Maureen remarked with a mischievous look on her face. 'Careful Marky.'

'You were ever expecting anything else?' Roger quipped.

'Oh come on, give him a break.' I gave Roger a playful slap on the leg before snuggling ever closer to him. 'Have you had a nice day, Mark?'

Unused to being in the spotlight like that, he looked momentarily flustered. 'Um, yeah. Yeah, it's been…' He glanced between us all for one moment before breaking out into the widest grin I'd ever seen him give. 'It's been amazing.'

'It's been perfect!' Maureen declared before hiccupping loudly. 'The champagne especially has been a highlight.'

'Noted.' Joanne raised her eyebrows. 'We should probably be heading off soon.'

'It's early! We used to stay up all night!' Maureen wailed.

'That was before we got old and married,' Mark commented wryly, even as his face betrayed the fact that he rather preferred being old and married. 'Anyway, I do stay up all night.'

'I don't think Maureen was counting night feeds,' I laughed.

'Are we still okay to crash at yours?' Roger asked suddenly, and I realised it was something I hadn't even considered. I wondered when Roger had started thinking practically rather than impulsively and whether that made him any less attractive. His hand on my hip rather argued the case for 'no'. 'Cause we can find a hotel if you want.'

'Don't be stupid.' Mark's face showed he'd never even considered that either, testament to his loyalty to his friends. 'Stacey's put fresh sheets on and everything.'

'But…. Well… it's your _wedding night_.' Roger stressed the words even as he looked a little uncomfortable saying them, much to my amusement. Clearly discussing your sex life with your friends was perfectly acceptable up until rings were involved.

'And we've got a _six-week-old baby_.' Mark matched his best friend word for word. 'We'll be crashing long before you will.'

'Speak for yourself.' Stacey re-joined us, seating herself ceremonially in Mark's lap. When her new husband gave her a slightly startled look, she added, 'What? We've got some catching up to do if we're to keep up with your sister.'

Roger's arms tightened ever so slightly around me and I knew why. For the next few months, whenever babies were mentioned, I'd find Roger's hand wrapped around mine or his eyes resting on my face, as though his sheer physical being could somehow make things better. There was no cure-all patch for this one, but he was a pretty good sticking plaster. Now I leaned back into his hold and found, for the first time in many months, that I was truly happy.

'We should do this more often,' Maureen said after a short period of silence, her tone so much calmer than usual that we all looked at her in surprise. 'This. Us.' She gestured around a little fuzzily. 'Like…' She shrugged unable to find the right words, but we knew what she meant, and the unspoken absence of Collins was felt by all of us.

'Anyone want some more champagne?' I said after another silence, momentarily embarrassed considering I was a leading cause for why 'this' couldn't happen more regularly. They responded as was only to be expected.

'Yeah!'

'If we can get a ride back with you.'

'Driving.'

'Better not.'

'Breastfeeding.' And then, 'What's _that_?'

I froze, my hand around the bottle and my mistake instantly clear to me. Raising my eyes to Stacey's I wondered if it was possible to shrug it off. But the red-head was not to be put off and she wrenched my hand off of the bottle more violently than I thought even Maureen would be capable of.

'Is this… are you… _engaged?_'

I looked at Roger. This was sort of his fault, after all; he could help to deal with the fall-out at the very least.

'Uh… sort of…' He scratched his neck uncomfortably

'What?' Maureen exclaimed, her unfilled glass forgotten about.

'You're engaged?' Mark's jaw could not have dropped further.

'Uh, yes?' I pulled my hand away from Stacey's grip and turned the ring around on my finger self-consciously. 'Roger proposed a couple of days ago and… I said yes.' I saw Roger's suppressed smile as I waggled my fingers for everybody in just the way he'd told me not to.

The announcement was met with the same stunned silence as Mark's phone call had been last night. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and waited, unsure how they'd take the news. For one horrible moment I thought that they'd hate the idea.

'And you weren't going to tell us?' Mark's voice, when it came, was small and the note of hurt within it was obvious. It was precisely what I hadn't anticipated: that they'd see our secrecy as some kind of betrayal.

'Yes! We just… we didn't want to spoil your day.' I bit my lip as I spoke our reasoning out loud. It had sounded so logical inside the car this morning and yet now…

'How would that spoil our day?' Stacey demanded, before pulling me to my feet. 'Come here! That's amazing news! Congratulations!'

It was as though the ice had not only been broken but well and truly smashed. The next few minutes passed in a blur of hugs, kisses and well-wishes. Unused to quite so much physical contact from anyone except Roger, I found myself blushing and retreating back into the English reserve which I'd lived within all my life. It was only when I was handed on to Mark that I found myself again. His hug reminded me of the family I was attaching myself to, a family who had chosen each other rather than merely being tied together with strings of chromosomes. For the first time all day I felt tears spring to my eyes as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close.

'Collins would be really pleased,' was all he said, and I knew he was right. Today would have been his very happiest day and I hoped that, if he was able to, he was watching us at that moment. He'd have loved it.


	56. Chapter 56

**Sorry for it being so long; I'm stretching myself rather thinly these days! Cheesey twist here but I'm allowing myself that!**

* * *

><p>Telling my real family was a rather more clinical affair. A few calls to my parents, Amelia and James was all that was needed, and the cards which duly arrived were devoid of the sort of gushing sentiments Maureen had layered upon me after a further glass of champagne. Still, the cards actually existed, which I couldn't have even imagined six months earlier. It was a sign of some progress at least and I displayed them surprisingly proudly in the apartment.<p>

Returning to work after our weeks in New York was somewhat of a shock to the system, yet not an altogether unpleasant one. The night before my first shift I found myself worrying that I'd forgotten all the skills I'd learnt over the year and that I'd make some hideous error in what I knew would be a busy few weeks leading up to Christmas. In the event, though, it was, as Meg described it, 'like falling off of a bicycle.'

'Though I can't actually ride a bicycle,' she admitted as we cleared the restaurant at the end of our last shift before Christmas. 'So that's a pretty stupid analogy.'

To my surprise, the restaurant was closing down for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Again, as Meg said, 'who wants French food over Christmas?' In contrast, O'Hanlon's was staunchly staying open throughout the festive period as it 'provided a service to the community' (Declan's words, not Meg's). This was something Roger was quietly delighted about, being as how it gave us the perfect excuse not to spend a Carter family Christmas down in Kent.

'So how are you spending Christmas?' I asked Meg as we placed chairs carefully on tables to allow for easy cleaning.

She shrugged. 'Oh you know. I'm sure there's something on TV.'

'Are you with family or… friends… or…?' I had no idea why I was pursuing this issue. Meg had become a friendly face at work but I knew that didn't necessarily make her a friend. I wasn't even sure how to refer to whatever it was she'd insinuated was going on between her and Karl a few months ago.

'Meal for one.' She smiled but some of her usual bravado had gone and I must have let my feelings about that show on my face. 'Oh it's okay. It means I can watch what I want.'

'But what about your family?'

'We don't really get on.' She shrugged, something I was particular impressed by as she was balancing two trays of empty glasses at the time. 'My parents are divorced and it always becomes this big thing about where me and my brother are spending Christmas, and he's decided to spend it in Germany this year anyway, so I figured I may as well take away all the problems and watch _La Boheme_ by myself seeing as my step-dad can't stand opera anyway.'

'But… what about…?' I glanced over my shoulder towards where Karl was checking the till receipts. 'What's he doing?'

'Spending it with his wife. And kids.' Meg spoke so casually that it took a second for me to jerk my head up from where I was polishing the table. Her off-hand manner vanished as soon as we made eye-contact. 'Oh please don't look at me like that. It's fine!'

'Really?' I pursued her into the kitchen. 'But you'll be on your own for Christmas.'

'What's Christmas? Just some commercialised holiday crap which puts people heavily into debt and causes family arguments.' Meg dumped the trays of glasses with slightly more force than was needed. 'What are you doing that's so great anyway?'

'Roger's boss is having a dinner for everybody and then he's working so I'll probably stay at the bar or…' I shrugged and then a Mark-esque thought came into my head. 'You should come. Not to the dinner, but to the bar.'

'Yeah, a charity invite sounds great.' Meg rolled her eyes and ducked back out into the restaurant.

'It's not a charity invite.' I followed her again, much to the irritation of two of our colleagues. 'It's me saying I'd really like to spend Christmas with you.' To my surprise, I found it was sort of true. 'So just… think about it?'

* * *

><p>Despite my invitation, Meg was the last thing on my mind when Christmas morning dawned. A desperate need for water was a much more pressing concern; drinking sparkling wine after a ten-hour shift was probably not the best way Roger and I could have seen in the festive season. By the time I'd been to the kitchen and back, he was blearily greeting the day.<p>

'Tell me you feel like this too.'

I passed him the spare glass of water I'd brought back with me. 'Drink up.'

He groaned and levered himself into a semi-sitting position. 'I think I did last night. What were we thinking?'

'Happy Christmas?' I gave him a teasing smile and clinked my glass against his.

The moaning stopped instantly and he returned my smile. Then, without warning he leaned over and kissed me, spilling both his and my glasses of water in the process.

'Roger!' As the cold water splashed over my legs, I squealed, to no avail as he only kissed me more fiercely until I was buried underneath him in bed. By the time I was able to draw breath again, I was laughing more than anything else. 'Rog, the sheets are soaked.'

'They'll dry.' Leaning on his elbows, his glass discarded amongst the bedclothes, he studied me long and hard before saying, 'Happy Christmas,' and kissing me again, slowly and more sedately, in a way which wasn't going to cause any more damage to the soft furnishings.

'So, do I get my presents now or later?' I asked after a short pause.

'Presents?' Roger raised his eyebrows. 'Plural? Have you been a good enough girl?'

'I think so.'

'Hmmmm.' He gave a mock frown. 'Really?'

'Really.' I nodded. Then, breaking the faux-flirtatious conversation, I said, 'So, seriously: now or later?'

Roger laughed and rolled off of me. 'Are you usually this bratty at Christmas?'

'Well you didn't get me anything last year,' I reminded him, pouting a little.

'You said it didn't matter!'

'Oh come on, Roger. It always matters.'

He gave that comment far more consideration than I'd intended, twisting a strand of my hair around his finger as he scrutinised my face. 'Yeah. I know,' he said finally, with a small sigh, before releasing me and swinging his legs out of bed. When I gave him a quizzical look, wondering if my careless words had driven him away from me yet again, he gave me a smile. 'Breakfast in bed?'

It was a luxury we didn't often get to enjoy, so I took advantage of it. Rather too much advantage, it turned out, as we had to hastily shower and dress (something Roger didn't help out with too much) before running out of the flat. The Tube was closed down for the holidays so a long walk ensued, although a surprisingly cheerful one; it never failed to amaze me how much more pleasant Londoners could be on a bank holiday as opposed to a regular working day. We were almost late all over again due to how many times we stopped to greet people, something which came much more naturally to Roger than to me. Apparently being essentially a hermit for six years was easier to shake off than being British for a lifetime.

When we finally arrived at the bar, spilling excuses, Niall didn't seem either surprised or irritated by our late arrival. In fact, his wife Celia was only just setting the table, something I immediately fell into helping with, keen to make up for our scatty appearance. It was only Declan who seemed put out by our tardiness, pulling Roger aside with furrowed eyebrows and none of the usual charm which I associated him with. He mostly looked tired, which I thought was probably a side-effect of his having over-celebrated the evening before. I wasn't quite sure what that had to do with Roger, but I was trying to be less suspicious so I kept quiet.

I was soon to discover the source of Declan's insomnia anyway.

* * *

><p>'That was amazing,' I declared as I placed my knife and fork side by side on the plate. 'Thank you so much Celia.'<p>

'Yeah, thanks.' Roger gave me a mischievous look. 'If it weren't for you, I'd be suffering Cat's cooking today.'

General outraged laughter accompanied his words, alongside Celia's comment that, 'I'd give him a slap if I were you!' I rolled my eyes, but slid my hand underneath the table and gave him a sharp pinch on the thigh, making him both yelp and look at me with a very different kind of mischief in his eyes.

A loud crash from upstairs made everybody jump and conversation stop dead.

'What,' Niall said, much more calmly than I felt, 'was that?'

All eyes turned towards Declan, who had been suspiciously silent for most of the meal. He lived directly above the bar, something I thought must be awful on his rare nights off. Whatever was upstairs, he knew about it, and I momentarily wondered if it had anything to do with his whispered conversation with Roger earlier. It was only now that I realised that there was something else other than tiredness etched onto his face: irritation. And it was all directed towards Roger. My suspicion made a very belated appearance.

'Well, don't all look at me,' Declan said now, more belligerent than I'd ever seen him. 'Ask Roger.'

Like a tennis match, everybody now turned to look at Roger, including me. To my surprise, he didn't look harassed or concerned. Despite my suspicions, I couldn't help noticing how different he looked these days. The glasses of red wine he'd imbibed with dinner probably helped, but it was more than that. It was like he'd finally found himself and was content with who he was. In light of that, I found myself less irritated by his cryptic smile now, and more curious about what exactly was going on in Declan's flat.

With a small laugh, Roger stood up. 'I'll be back in a minute.' Directing his next words specifically at me, he added, 'Don't go anywhere.'

I had no idea where he expected me to go. With our quarry gone, everybody turned back to look at Declan, who was draining his wine glass. When he realised everybody was looking at him again, he frowned, before pushing his chair back with a muttered, 'Feck this,' and headed to the bar. He'd proceed to drink several pints of Guinness before his usual good humour returned.

A further crash came from upstairs, followed by a muffled exclamation from Roger, followed by… barking.

'Oh sweet Jesus,' Niall muttered.

My eyes flew to where Declan was pulling his first pint. He simply rolled his eyes in return and shook his head. My stomach sank a little just as the door flew open.

'Happy Christmas.' Roger at least had the good grace to look a little bit sheepish as he was dragged forcibly into the bar by a whirlwind of white and black fur. It took several seconds for me to take in the red bow and the frankly pointless extension lead. Even had I been able to find the right words, they would have been knocked out of me as two paws landed solidly on my chest.

'Ah shit!' Roger made a grab for the dog and pulled him off of me. The dog's tail sent our empty plates smashing to the ground before Roger wrestled him into some form of sit. The two of them then looked up at me, one face filled with exuberance and excitement, the other looking suitably guilty as he said again, 'Happy Christmas.'

* * *

><p>'Cat, say something. Please?'<p>

'I…' I shrugged, lost for words again, still trying to get my head around what had happened this afternoon. Whatever I'd expected Christmas to be like this year, it hadn't involved a whirling dervish of a dog.

'I thought you'd like him,' Roger was saying now, a variation on a theme he'd been practising for the past half hour since we'd taken the dog out to try and prevent any more damage being done to the bar. The damage to Declan's flat I could currently only imagine. And now the Dalmatian was chasing his own tail, occasionally knotting himself up in the lead which I'd noted Roger hadn't yet dared to unclip, despite the fact this small city centre park was entirely fenced in. It didn't bode well.

With a sigh, I realised I'd have to say something sooner or later. 'When did you decide to get a dog?'

'You like dogs.'

'That wasn't my question.'

He knew when he was beaten. 'I've been thinking about it for a while.'

'And you didn't think to say anything?'

'It was supposed to be a surprise.'

'It was that alright.' I shook my head. 'Roger, what were you thinking? We can't have a dog! We live in a flat! We're never at home!'

'But I've thought of that.' He spoke in a rush, making it clear that he really had thought about it. 'He can come here with me when I'm working. Niall loves dogs.'

'Declan really seems like his biggest fan right now.'

'He'll come round. He shouldn't have left him alone so long. Should he?' Roger directed his last words to the dog himself who had come over, all wagging tail and overexcited panting. 'You only ripped his sofa to shreds cause you were bored.'

'He did what?' I yelped, unable to help myself thinking of the sofa back in our flat, the one piece of furniture I'd actually always liked. 'Roger... where did you even get him from?'

'The shelter.' Roger fondled the dog's ears, who actually seemed to have calmed down somewhat, his rear end hovering somewhere only just above the ground. 'He's been there six months already. The family who owned him gave him up when he got too big and he's been there ever since.' He gave me a sidelong look. 'He'll be destroyed if he's there much longer.'

'Don't.' I gave him a withering look. 'Don't try and use emotional blackmail.' At that, the dog turned his attention to me, as though he realised his case needed making in a much better way than Roger was managing. Completely abandoning his advocate, he abruptly buried his nose in my lap, back end wriggling again as his tail became little more than a blur. When he was like this, there wasn't a huge amount of difference between him and my family's Labradors. I tried an unhopeful, 'Sit,' and was somewhat surprised to find he did indeed do as he was told.

'See, he's not completely untrained.'

'He's not exactly Lassie,' I muttered, even as I found myself stroking his head. For several minutes, we sat in silence, and the dog never once lifted his head from my lap, seemingly tired from his earlier antics. I would later find out that Declan's irritability was more than partly caused by the fact that the dog had refused to sleep quietly in the next room and had whined all night. Given that, it was hardly surprising that he was keen to have a little shut-eye right now, occasionally venturing a tentative lick.

Eventually, Roger spoke again. 'Look, I can't do anything about it today anyway. The shelter doesn't open again until Wednesday, so we'll have to keep him until then anyway. Then I'll take him back and-'

'Stop.' When he looked at me, I rolled my eyes and tried to keep a smile from spreading across my face. 'Just… stop.' Sighing, I lifted the dog's head up so I could look at him properly, something which caused a grin to spread across his face and a paw to land squarely on my knee as his tail lashed the air again. 'I'm not going to send him back. And you know that. But Roger…' I turned to look at him. 'Don't do anything like this again.'

'No ma'am,' he replied, but that infectious grin was spreading over his features again. He was even emboldened enough to say, 'I knew you'd like him.'

'He's… sweet,' I remarked, as the dog bounced up again, excited by Roger's change of mood. 'I think. So what's his name?'

'Lucky.'

'Of course.'


	57. Chapter 57

Lucky was an apt name; he was indeed lucky that I didn't throttle him on a daily basis. Much as I grew to despise the family who had dumped their dog like unwanted clothes, on quite frequent occasions I could almost understand why they'd left their adolescent Dalmatian in someone else's care. By the end of Boxing Day almost no corner of our apartment had been unexplored by Lucky. Unfortunately, for the newest member of our family, 'exploring' seemed to be a synonym for 'discovering whether it was breakable.' Roger was aggravatingly laid back until his precious guitar came in the firing line. Then it was my turn to remind him of how we'd saved the dog from certain death, something I almost enjoyed doing.

Growing up with Labradors, I'd learnt to keep food and anything even remotely edible out of reach. Lucky was never particularly food-driven, which was both a blessing and a curse; Chas and Dave had always been eager to do anything for a scrap of chicken, whilst the Dalmatian's motivations were much more obscure. Roger discovered entirely accidental that a sock was an infinitely more desirable treat than any amount of expensive dog toys. In exchange for being allowed to destroy a sock, Lucky would drop pretty much anything else that happened to be in his mouth at that moment. Expecting a dog to tell the difference between an old sock and a new sock was a bit far-fetched though, and so our trips to the local department store rose significantly in the months after Lucky came to join us.

Roger's Christmas Day diagnosis that the Dalmatian was only destructive because he was bored was partially true. Still reluctant to appear too keen on my present, I insisted upon Lucky accompanying Roger on his first shift after Christmas, something Declan was initially dubious about, even after the substantial amount of Guinness he consumed on Christmas afternoon.

'It's not that I don't like dogs,' he said, not for the first time. 'It's just… he's a special sort of dog.' Eyeing Lucky warily even whilst the dog had his eyes closed and was snoring soundly, it was about all he'd say on the subject, seemingly reluctant to criticise my Christmas present too much.

Keen to have the dog make a good second impression, Roger made him his new running partner, a role Lucky was only too happy to play. Boxing Day morning, I woke up to the sounds of heavily laboured breathing in the living room. When I ventured out of bed to investigate, I found Roger spread-eagled on the sofa and Lucky still pottering around, tail whisking the air merrily.

'You okay?' I asked as the dog greeted me in the only way he knew how: a cheerful bound and a woof.

Roger opened one eye. 'You asking me or him?'

I regarded the Dalmatian thoughtfully, unable to avoid smiling as he planted a slobbery lick on my cheek. 'He looks alright. So I suppose you.'

He gave a groan and closed his eyes again. Such dramatics suggested there wasn't a whole lot wrong and so I fetched him a glass of water before sitting down next to him, stroking his sweat-beaded hair back off of his face. Lucky proudly presented me with a cushion before trotting to the kitchen where he loudly and messily drained his water bowl.

'Did he take you for a nice walk?' I asked eventually when Roger still hadn't elaborated on his prone stance.

'He's insane.' When I only gave a small laugh in response, Roger's eyes opened and he sat up, certainly looking alarmed at what had happened that morning. 'I mean it. He didn't stop or break stride or anything.'

'He's a Dalmatian. He's bred to run beside carriages.' Or so went my rudimentary knowledge of the breed based mainly upon Disney films and their less well-known sources. 'I should think you're small fry to him. You'll have to up your game, Davis.'

To Roger's credit, he did exactly that, getting up even earlier each morning and running even further. It was a proud day when Lucky returned from a run, gulped down a bowl of water and only chewed one trainer before curling up and falling loudly asleep. Roger's smile was akin to having climbed Everest. From then on, Lucky received a thorough hour and a half jog every morning followed by an only slightly more leisurely walk at some stage during the afternoon or evening. If nothing else, it at least prevented O'Hanlon's from being destroyed during the long shifts Roger continued to work there and kept Declan from having a fit. What's more, he seemed to be quite a hit with the customers and Niall's innate superstition meant that the lop-sided arrangement of spots on his side for which he was presumably named went down a treat. Lucky certainly lived up to his name as he went from unwanted charity case to being in severe danger of being spoiled.

He never lost his good nature though, and around the flat, providing he received his ration of walks, he became increasingly calm, almost to the point of indolence. Always ready with a wag and a woof, he'd soon retire back to one of his many favourite napping spots until he heard the merest jingle of a lead.

'You know, when he's like this, he's almost pleasant,' I remarked one rare afternoon both Roger and I had off. We were tangled together on the sofa, a messy mixture of human and dog. My foot had gone to sleep almost as soon as Lucky had flopped down upon it, yet he looked so peaceful that I didn't have the heart to move him.

Roger glanced down briefly before returning his gaze to the film we were supposedly watching, though I'd been vaguely dozing for the past twenty minutes. Then he lowered his mouth nearer my ear before saying, 'You know, you don't have to pretend. Admit it. You love him.'

I let a smile stretch across my face. 'There's no need to be so smug about it. I still don't understand why you got him.'

There was a long pause, a sign that there was more to his answer than anything he'd let slip on the surface. 'You like dogs.' The matter was closed, forever it turned out, but over the years I began to understand some of what Roger had tried to achieve with his ridiculous Christmas present that year. It had been clumsy and crazy but it had sort of worked.

I couldn't help thinking that summed up everything which had happened since I'd met Roger.

* * *

><p>For a time, life rumbled on as life is wont to do. Caught up in shifts and bills and lazy afternoons on the sofa, it was easy to overlook the bigger picture. Days and weeks passed and planning a wedding wasn't at the forefront of my mind. It was enough to have this, my own bizarre family, and to ask for anything more seemed churlish. There was no rush or hurry; everything would work out one day. I knew that was Roger's mentality, anyway, and I was learning that it was sometimes the right one to have. Things happened regardless of how much time you spent worrying about them.<p>

And so it was that, one idle Tuesday, over a year after Lucky entered our lives, things changed. Forever.


	58. Chapter 58

**I'm going away with work with no internet access (beyond a crappy 3G connection) so I thought I'd offload this before I went. It's pretty depressing. Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>I was still unconcerned. Looking back, I wondered how I'd had my own nature, my instincts, so relaxed in the few short years I'd known him. That he could have altered me so entirely seemed impossible, yet here I was, stumbling almost blindly from bedroom to living room, yawning and rubbing sleep from my eyes. The last few moments of my old life.<p>

'You were gone a while,' I remarked, still yawning, stating the obvious. And then I took in the sight in front of me. My fiancé, sitting quietly on the sofa, head cradled in his hands. Our dog, sitting patiently beside him, tail still, as though he knew. It was an image which would be seared onto my mind for years to come.

Somehow, I found the words. 'What's happened?' My voice sounded calm and even. Of course it did. Somewhere inside of me I must have been rehearsing this moment for years. It didn't make sense that it still felt so unexpected.

Roger's silences were legendary by now. It was a little quirk I'd grown to love about him; it was as though he was really giving whatever you said deep thought, valuing every syllable and wanting to repay it in kind. Today I wanted to shake him, to scream my question again.

When the answer came, I wished he'd stayed silent.

'I had a doctor's appointment.'

'You didn't say.'

'I… I didn't think anything of it.' His disgust at his own naivety was painted all over his face. These appointments were routine, a part of his post-April life. He'd not expected them to matter.

I swallowed hard. 'And?'

Roger sat back suddenly, staring at the ceiling as though a different truth might be written there. I waited as long as I could.

'Roger?'

'My T-cells are low.' He spat the words out. 'And I have "anomalous cells".'

'What does that mean?'

'It means I've got AIDS.' His voice choked as he said again, 'I've got AIDS.'

I was taken back over two years, a different apartment, a different city, yet the same tearing of a man's soul. The difference this time was that I was alone: there was no Collins to take my hand and lead me home. It was just Roger and me.

Before I could say anything, he stood up, and despite the terrible words, I still felt that familiar twist in my stomach. He looked so good, better than ever. His daily runs gave him a light tan all year round and his tracksuit bottoms hung off of his hips in a way which should have been illegal. There was no evidence on the outside that he was anything less than fighting fit. It didn't make sense. When I thought back to Collins that awful Christmas, he couldn't be further away from the picture in front of me now.

Remembering Collins, I remembered something else about my fiancé as I watched him heading towards the door.

'Where are you going?'

'I just need to…' He shrugged almost unconsciously, his eyes already miles away from here. I wondered where he'd gone: maybe he was missing Collins at that moment too. 'I'll be back later.'

'Roger, wait!' I finally roused myself into action just as the door closed behind him. It was a very final sound, and much as I willed him to surprise me, I knew it wouldn't be opening again any time soon. Just like Collins had said all that time ago, _when the going gets tough, Roger gets going_. I'd seen it happen time after time. He was like an animal that hid himself away when injured, guarding against any further hurt. I suppose it sort of worked, for him. It didn't work at all for me though.

I gave a small startled yelp as something wet touched the tips of my fingers. Lucky cowered momentarily, before gaining the confidence to lay his nose against my hand again, tail tentatively wagging. A stillness had come over the Dalmatian that I'd never seen before in all the months we'd had him. He hadn't even tried to jump up since I'd come into the room. It was that more than anything that morning that made me realise how much things had changed.

* * *

><p>Sometimes time flies past; you can barely blink before hours have gone by. Other times, minutes seem like decades and every second is a painful wait for things to pass. That day was the longest I had ever lived through. With no work to distract me, and nobody to share the burning fears inside me, I found myself wandering aimlessly around the apartment. Lucky's loyalty was tested to the limit as he padded tirelessly behind me, briefly settling only inches from me every time I sat for even a few minutes. Motion somehow kept my fear and terror at bay, as though whilst my brain was busy manoeuvring my body, it couldn't dwell upon Roger's words.<p>

On several occasions, a sudden stab of fear made my arm reach for the phone like a lifeline, and then I'd stop, wondering who I could possibly call. The obvious answer was Mark, the only person who could ever share this feeling. But he'd been through so much already and he was so far away. He couldn't offer me any help. Closer to home there were my parents, my brother, even Amelia crossed my mind, before I dismissed them as being just too far away from this world that Roger had led me into. There was nobody I could talk about this with. Except Roger. And he wasn't here.

I took Lucky for his evening walk alone. His sensitivity to my mood seemed to have been left behind as we crossed the threshold; for the duration of the walk, I was concentrating more upon my arms not being ripped out of their sockets than upon anything else. Walking to heel was something he'd never quite grasped, despite Roger's best efforts to teach him. By the time we returned home, I was physically exhausted, yet too afraid of my thoughts to settle for even a moment. That was why, when Roger came home, I was tidying the kitchen cupboards.

I studiously ignored him when he came into the kitchen. He leaned against the worktop in the silence between my crashes in the cupboard. For a long period of time I could feel his gaze boring into the back of my head.

Then, finally: 'You don't have to take it out on the pans.'

My back stiffened and I resolutely placed another pan back into the cupboard with a loud bang. It was no tidier than it had been an hour before, and considering Roger did most of the cooking, I felt certain it wasn't even in any more logical order. It was easier than turning around right then though.

'Cat.' He gave a sigh. 'I'm sorry.'

All it took was one glance from those eyes and I found myself suddenly crushed against his chest. I was ashamed to find myself trembling and tears coming into my eyes. Roger's lips grazed my hair before he rested his head on top of mine.

'Where've you been?' I mumbled into his shirt.

'Walking.'

'All day?'

'I walked a long way.'

Trying to match his flippant tone, I replied somewhat bitterly, 'Lucky will be sorry he missed out.' I felt his mouth curl into a small smile. Emboldened, I asked, 'What's going to happen?'

He gave one of his long pauses, before saying, 'I don't know.'

I lifted my head off of his chest. 'There must be something, more drugs. Can they up your dose or… I don't know, try something different or…?'

'Cat.' He stopped me in my tracks, exhaustion filling every inch of his face. 'I said, I don't know. I wasn't being difficult. For once.' With a weary terrifyingly beaten smile, he added, 'Come on, Cat. We knew this would happen.'

'That's not the point!' My eyes filled with tears again, my throat choked with sobs. 'I didn't think it would be yet, I thought…' I swallowed hard. 'This isn't fair.'

'No. I know. But I'm not dead yet.' I must have looked appalled as he instantly followed up with, 'I didn't mean it… I just meant… There's still stuff I want to do, Cat. And… being angry or sad, it… it's just gonna get in the way. I've done all of that before, I've… wasted so much time and I'm not doing it again.' A quizzical frown came between his eyebrows. 'Why are you staring at me like that?'

'You really did walk a long way.'

I was gratified to see a warmer smile pass across his face. 'Yeah. I did.' For a long moment he looked at me. 'I love you.'

My eyes swam again. 'I love you too.' Right then, there was nothing more to say.


End file.
